A Tossed Coin
by RonCN
Summary: ::OC::  Mjirn is a houseless drow male who has tossed the coin of his life into the air: there's a new city, a budding hope, a half dreamed dream... The coin spins and spins in the air: will it fall to heads or tails in the end?
1. Act I

**A/N:**_ Hello, readers new and old: welcome if you don't know me yet, and it has been a long time for those who do. Still, I have returned with something slightly –quite- different from my usual trend: a story about redemption._

_Some of you asked to read this kind of tale after my short story, _To catch the moonlight_. I am proud to report that I have been working on it… but the story has changed so much as I wrote it that I've started this little side project: I hope you'll enjoy it while I finish _To kill the moonlight_._

_This is the life of Mjirn, a lost soul, seen through the scenes which touch him most deeply in his search for a new life. It takes place in the Forgotten Realms, in the imaginary _Kingdom of Haven_ (a group of isles just west of the Nelanther Isles)._

**Warnings**: _Implied dark situations, which I hope to handle with some taste. We are talking drow, after all.  
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**Disclaimers**: _NWN2 belongs to Atari. Forgotten Realms belong to Wizards of the Coast. Haven Persistent World belongs to Barfubaz. The name of Mjirn's home city, Maelrassin, is a small tribute to Valine's NWN module, "A dance with rogues", an amazing story that I do recommend.  
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o O o

**Act I**

o O o

It was the fourth city he would be calling "home", and time and time again he seemed to make the same mistake. He kept expecting things to change.

Back in his home city his life had already been as it would be later: born a houseless male, he had been only one step above slavery. And it had been one small step. Even though he was intelligent, deft, talented and handsome, nothing had served to change his destiny.

It was true that for a time he had believed that the handsome part would be useful, as it helped him to be noticed by the upper classes, but he had learnt soon the hard lesson that being noticed only worsened one's lot in life.

That was the reason why he had left Maelrassin in the first place: used and abused as an object, he had eventually managed to gather the courage to leave and head towards the one place where a male like him could make his own choices: Ssamath.

Mjirn smirked bitterly. He had learned too late that the fabled colleges of Magic required exorbitant entry fees. He had never owned much and he had escaped his homeland's hell with barely the clothes on his back, so there was little chance he could afford them, even if they'd not have been half as dear.

He had been too foolish back then, to think that his abilities, his services, his loyalty might persuade a mentor to foot his expenses, however minimal he kept them.

The worst part was to remember that it had taken him _years_ to realize it.

He had reached this third destination broken and spent, without any dreams to chase. Skullport had been his last escape route, nothing else: a city for renegades and scum, where he could mix with other houseless Ilythiiri and toil away his days. But even such a simple illusion had been too much to ask for in the end: without money, without status, without strength, without understanding the fine balance between the city's factions, he had sank once more to the very bottom of society. He became an object, a commodity, something to use and discard, so worthless that no one even thought of bothering to collar and claim him.

Just as it had been in Ssamath. Just as it had been in Maelrassin.

He had almost given up at that point. He had almost ignored the rumours about a paradise island where even _dhaerrow_ were accepted and where a powerful Mythal protected all those who sought refuge.

Looking around him, Mjirn tugged his cowl even lower over his face, partly to protect himself against the sun and partly to hide his heritage. He still didn't know where he had found the will and courage to ask the ship captain to hire him as part of the cleaning crew in the trip to Haven. He still wasn't sure whether it had been a good idea.

Probably not.

He would probably end where he began: a small step above the _gol_ slave force, if he was lucky.

But perhaps there was some truth in the rumours. Perhaps he would get the chance to study, as he had not been able to in Ssamath. Perhaps this was a chance, the one he no longer dared to dream about.

There was a Mythal in place, that much had been true at least: he could _feel_ it, even though he couldn't tell how he recognized it…

He took a deep breath and abandoned the ship, hoping again – this time, that he'd not be noticed.

And… there. He was in Sharessia.


	2. Act II

A/N: _Thank you to those who have read and reviewed or commented. I present you now the next installment - the update tentative schedule will be on Mondays. If you do enjoy this chapter and decide to review - which I hope you do - I might take a little while to get back to you, for I shall be travelling until next Saturday. I will get back to you, though - and your words will be a most cherished welcome home present. Now, on with the show -_

o O o

**Act II**

o O o

Mjirn sat in a corner of the Elvenforge tower, trying his best to fletch his own arrows. It was cheaper that way and arrows were, after all, the only weapon he could use to hunt the wretched creatures who infested the small islet near Sharessia, the so-called Goblin Island: he may have been forced to survive on goblin scraps, but he didn't have the constitution to bull rush the vermin.

"What are you doing, male?"

The sultry voice broke him out of this thoughts, speaking with the musical cadence and haughty tone he was so used to hear in the Underdark.

"I am merely tipping my arrows to prepare for the hunt, Mistress," he replied without thinking and his eyes automatically fell to the floor.

There were other drow in Sharessia, so many of them. The female, taller and more built than him though still petite for human standards, pouted her full lips and examined one of his finished pieces with obvious disdain.

Disdain was an emotion he could understand. He had faced it constantly before.

"You can take them if it pleases you, Mistress."

Of course she could take them. She was a female, and she carried herself with the proper dignity: unlike some of the other Ilythiiri he had run across in the confusing city, she knew the power she held. She did not need his permission to take _anything._

He told her anyway, though, as a way to acknowledge her superiority, because that was how things were supposed to be.

She broke the shaft in half and threw the pieces to the ground.

"What use would I have for such trash? Can you not do better?" her words were twisted with a sneer as she stared down at his crouched figure.

Mjirn darted a glace at his wasted work and then resumed staring at the female's boots, his shoulders tensing. She had addressed him probably because she was bored, and he was walking the thin line of displeasing her. He knew what that might mean for him.

"I do not have the knowledge nor the resources to create anything more worthy, Mistress."

"Worthy, indeed, is the word," he felt the eyes of the female studying him for a moment. "Come. I shall show you what you must do to perfect yourself."

He stood in one fluid movement, making sure not to lift his eyes and not to betray the shiver going down his spine: being singled out would surely have nefarious results, but it was also the only way to move forward – at least in drow society.

Sharessia, and the Kingdom of Haven in general, were a hive of all races across Faerun and a few from the outer planes, and there was not a semblance of order whatsoever. Surfacers and outsiders of all kinds mixed and interacted without readily apparent rules. They were noisy and outrageous and capricious, mercurial even in their dealings.

It should have been liberating.

It was terrifying.

For well over a century, during his life in Maelrassin, the structure of power had been solid behind its ever-changing façade: the Matron Mothers bowed to no one but Lloth, and after them invariably came the priestesses, the females, the most powerful males, the houseless females, the houseless males and the slave force.

When travelling to the City of Magic he had discovered a variation of the norm: High Wizards and arcane casters took the first positions, thus dislodging everyone two steps backwards in the chain of status. When one was placed at the bottom, though, the change was not overly noticeable: one still knew to whom defer.

While it was true that Skullport had been worse, it had not prepared Mjirn to deal with Haven: the free port of the Underdark had individuals of a number of races strewn through the hierarchical structure of the drow, true, and accommodating to their existence had almost been his downfall, but at least he had known those races to trade and war with the drow before. Mind flayers, duergar, beholders: they all were eyed with contempt by the dark elves, but acknowledged as capable and powerful, and most cities had forged a sort of grudging peace with them, so he knew what to expect.

But where did he stand in Sharessia?

He could not even determine who was the true power and who played the fool.

There was only one way a recently arrived refugee could react in such a circumstance, of course: assuming everyone else was above him while hoping to understand the new rules as fast as possible.

Unfortunately, reason seemed to have taken its leave from a city dedicated to the Goddess of hedonism and pleasure: if there were rules, they were still far beyond his grasp.

That was the appeal behind the female's haughty command: it was something he knew.

As he followed after the trailing cloak across the streets of Sharessia, towards the port, she didn't deign to look backwards once. Of course, she would assume a mere male would follow her orders. They reached the docks, attracting only a few curious glances from idle surfacers, and she proceeded to board a small skiff, instructing the boatman to take them to Mithuth.

It was a drow word: 'sin'.

Mjirn didn't have to go, from what he had gathered. Citizens insisted on claiming everyone was equal in stature and free of will and action. While he was in the capital, he could stand, look into the female's eyes, and tell her he was going to remain within the city's boundaries, enjoying its opportunities and freedom – for, surely, the female had no altruistic intentions when taking him to her own territory.

He hurried to climb into the boat and make himself as unobtrusive as possible, feeling the female's amused gaze burning on his skin.

Humbly, he lowered his eyes, white lashes falling against his high cheekbones, and held in the small smile threatening to curl up the corner of his lips.

The stakes were high, but at least this was a game he knew how to play.

o O o

Mithuth turned out to be an independent drow outpost and Mjirn didn't have to fake his wonder to play his abased role: the port was placed inside a small cave, reached after a short navigation of a narrow canal, and from there a teleport stone took the traveller to the city proper: an enormous cavern, magically eroded, decorated with opulent statues lit by faery fire. The city's timepiece was a fountain depicting a four-headed dragon, and the sound of running water reverberated in every nook and cranny, chasing away the unearthly silence of the Underdark.

Was this truly part of Haven? Mjirn couldn't tell: he'd have never thought the surface kingdom to harbour such a settlement… But then again, there was a sweet, sweet irony to it.

The female crossed the deserted plaza with long, confident strides, her hips swaying voluptuously in spite of the lack of public, and she never looked at him until they reached a second obelisk, similar to the one which had teleported them to the cave.

"Come," she repeated.

Her tone had changed, notes of greediness layering it along with a faint snarl denoting aggressiveness. This stone, this place, whatever it was, had been her goal from the moment she had decided to address him in the surface.

So be it.

Mjirn took a deep breath and touched the teleport and, after a lurching sensation, his feet found purchase in a mist-covered floor. The female appeared by his side almost immediately, but he took the chance to examine his surroundings as best as he could.

In front of him, just a few paces away, a statue of a horned demon emerged from the swirling mist and beyond it he could glimpse the faint silhouettes of tables and shelves lining the walls.

A laboratory.

When she had said to "perfect him", was this was she meant? To use _bits and pieces_ for experimentation?

He had been prepared for anything, but in spite of it he startled when he felt her cool, slender fingers caressing his naked neck. Like a predator, she prowled in a tight circle around him, her hand moving lazily from his neck to his chest, his shoulder, down his arm, to his hip, up his spine, to his neck again…

Assessing him. Learning whether he was a runaway slave, what was his physical form, how plying his body could be.

When she came to be in front of him again, he dared to glace up and caught sight of white teeth revealed in a feral grin.

"A male like you may not be alone," she purred, threading her fingers through his short, start white hair. "Useless, without direction."

"Of course, Mistress," he replied meekly, his pulse beating faster in his veins.

"You shall belong to me," her tone dropped, as did her hand. "I shall grant you access to this library and you shall prove yourself worthy of such favour. You shall be rewarded then" the female grinned darkly, her fingers cupping his crotch.

She didn't enunciate the alternative to success, but it did not matter: Mjirn's attention had shot to the dozens upon dozens of bookcases, and his mind reeled when he thought of the wealth of tomes stored in them.

Of course, they could be mundane, useless books. Or priceless notes taken in unknown languages. Females always had an edge when throwing dares in one's face and the challenge might very well be unconquerable, regardless of his dedication or talent.

He was risking death, torture, servitude, in exchange for a phantom chance to learn the Art he knew he had been born to wield.

High stakes, high gains.

Mjirn's smiled and allowed his hips to shift slightly into her hand, letting her feel his interest.

"Yes, Mistress," he purred. "I will not disappoint you."


	3. Act III

A/N: _Next chapter and, surprisingly enough, I'm keeping up with the schedule. The trend should continue, at the very least for the next three chapters. There are a lot of meaningful things hinted or shown in this installment, though: I hope you enjoy. If you do, please review. _

o O o

**Act III**

o O o

They met at the shore of Goblin Island. He was climbing down from the skiff that made the trip between the islet and Sharessia, she was bandaging her scratches after a lonely hunt.

It was a familiar sight for Mjirn: to be overpowered by the humanoids populating the area, swarmed by ridiculously weak kobolds and be brought near death time and time again by the lowest among the races.

After all, the little bastards had been hunting _him_ until not so long ago.

He greeted her. She said she had never seen a drow before.

"In Cormyr," the woman said with a smile, "they say that drow are like vermin."

"And what do you think, now that you have seen one?"

"Well, vermin do not organize raids to destroy surface villages, and they are not quite so beautiful to behold."

He laughed. The woman, who appeared to be young, had summed up the two possible answers to his question in one single sentence, not really insulting but not quite flattering him.

"Mjirn," he introduced himself. "I think I can safely say that it is a pleasure to meet you."

He didn't lie.

She agreed readily when he suggested they hunt together: not a hint of mistrust in her eyes, and it marvelled Mjirn. He didn't know whether that made her precious or stupid.

Probably the latter, he decided, but he motioned between them anyway.

"May I?" he asked.

Valerie – for such was her name – seemed to be confused by his gesture and her nod was slightly weary, in spite of its readiness.

As he wove the strands of the spell with his will, he told himself that it'd make her a better shield for him: she wore the heavy armour and weapons that identified her as a fighter, and in ensuring that she lived through the day he secured a convenient barrier to stand between himself and the goblinfolk.

There was nothing more to it, and so he told himself.

He allowed his spell to settle over her like a gentle caress, covering her like a protective cocoon against all enemy blades, and the smile she shot him was as alien to his eyes as the accursed sun.

All morning long, they accosted goblin camp after goblin camp. Mjirn had wandered the Island long enough to anticipate the terrain and he could predict the creatures' moves since his kin hunted them for sport. Thus, they hit here and retreated there, following no apparent pattern but always finding the small kobold parties, the goblin camps, the bugbear war bands, and always collecting whatever meagre loot they could lay their hands on.

It was not a work for heroes, but it would help them to make it through the week.

At one point, they even dared to brave a slightly bigger, more permanent settlement. The goblin resulted to wield better equipment, to be more vicious than any they had killed before, and it made Mjirn frown with concern.

He fought from his usual spot, some twenty paces away from the melee, where he could pick his targets carefully to get them off Valerie's back, and it was from this vantage point that he saw the gaping mouth of a cavern.

The ceiling was low, partially hidden behind boulders, but he noticed a group of five amazingly disciplined goblin charging out.

The woman was still facing two bugbears and he could not shoot fast enough to kill the new prey.

They had obviously found the entrance to the goblin home tunnels, and he cursed aloud at the untimely discovery.

The drow knew he could run for it. The defenders would probably not leave their posts and he was not truly engaged in battle. Besides, Valerie would not even notice it, and she would make for a fearsome decoy.

Mjirn dropped his bow – and found himself rushing his fingers through a half-learnt pattern.

He aimed at a spot a few steps in front of the rushing goblins, hoping it was far enough not to harm the woman, and shouted the last word of the spell.

His vision faded to white and he staggered, more exhausted than he'd care to admit as the smell of burnt ozone and cooked flesh reached his nostrils. When the dancing dots of light cleared and his watering eyes could see again, he found a cluster of convulsing, charred bodies and a grinning woman standing between two singed, bloody corpses.

"That was incredible. I didn't know you could do such things!"

Truthfully, neither did he. The lightning ball he had called forth was a spell much too advanced, taking into account the short learning period and the unconventional methods, but he had had to try something. It had been blind luck that it had worked, nothing else, but he smiled and didn't say as much.

Valerie turned towards the cavern and the tunnels beyond, pushing her hair out of her eyes.

"Should we try the caves now? With that firepower and these weaklings, we could make it."

Mjirn considered her, with her battered armour held together by his magic and her panting breath, and then he looked to the cave.

The leaders of the goblin clan hid in there. The best of the clan dwelled in those tunnels, in those caverns. Whatever treasure the goblin had managed to gather in their pitiful lives would be hidden in there, and even if they failed to find the chamber, the loot on the corpses would be better than the tinker they were collecting.

He shook his head.

"Gol are creatures of dark," he explained. "They will be strongest away from the sun, and they will know their home and its strengths. We should not attempt the assault alone."

He didn't say that he was also a creature of dark. That he'd also grow stronger if the sun stopped making his head swim. That his eyes hurt from exposure and he was eager to loose himself in the tunnels, that those little beast would not measure against him and he badly needed the extra coin.

He knew she would not survive below the earth.

"Sounds logical, and you're the one with more experience," she conceded with a shrug and they moved on along the shore.

o O o

They crouched against sun-kissed rocks and were eating up the last crumbs of a sparse meal when a cacophony of curses, screams, grunts and running footsteps set them on edge. Food abandoned, they grabbed their weapons and peered towards the rapidly approaching commotion.

A bearded human ran like a maniac, unleashing uncoordinated bursts of raw magic and attracting more and more enemies with his wild behaviour.

Under their curious eyes, the mob grew to worrisome and then to lethal proportions, but the man kept sending out his magical explosions with no order nor strategy in mind.

Mjirn arched a brow, always amazed by human stupidity.

Valerie shouted a war cry and charged.

She ducked under an eldritch blast and swept her mace out wide, hitting an unprepared kobold square across the chest. Two more strides took her to the man's side and, leading with her shield, she bull rushed a goblin fighter who was trying to use its short sword to hamstring the warlock.

Doing so left her wide open to the attacks of a little pair of kobold runts and Mjirn quickly notched an arrow and fired. The shot, of course, flew wide: he was not good enough to dream otherwise.

But the clank of steel on stone was enough to divert the runts' attention.

One of them turned and advanced on him, and the other lost whatever surprise it'd been using to its advantage. Mjirn aimed again, this time taking a heartbeat to correct the course, and shot another missile: the second kobold fell and the drow crouched low, pulling a dagger free just in time to parry the trust of the first.

How he hated it: creatures so inferior, so weak, and still he was hard pressed to teach them their proper place.

With a feral snarl he sidestepped agilely and sunk his blade in the runt's neck, twisting it for good measure before yanking it free. Before the corpse hit the ground, he was whispering the words of a spell – his last one.

The arcane words of power fizzled from his mind with the effort of casting the incantation and three goblins at the edge of the melee staggered and fell, deep in slumber. Valerie, who was fighting her own share, caught one with her mace before it collapsed, not even realizing that it was asleep, and Mjirn himself slit the throat of the other two.

Then, as fast as it had begun, it was over.

The little humanoid bodies were strewn over the hilltop and the two humans and the drow stood, panting, shaking from the exertion.

Mjirn felt a warm tickle of blood running into his lowered hand and realized that he had, at some point, been hurt. The runt's fault, most likely, but it was only a shallow cut on his forearm so he paid it no heed. Instead, he stared at the foolish man who had caused the situation.

He recognized him. A warlock, a fake mage, who went by the name of Merrick. They had hunted together on occasion before, and Mjirn felt no great love for the egotistical scum. Acknowledging him with a curt nod, the drow approached Valerie – and froze.

On her fingertips, a globe of golden light bathed her scratched skin in a warm glow, leaving her unblemished and beautiful.

She looked up and laughed.

"The goddess has deemed me worthy… She answers my prayers now!" she exclaimed, exultant. "Why don't we try the caves now?" she added, indicating Merrick and gripping her mace with a new confidence.

Mjirn dropped his gaze to the ground, feeling cold fingers spreading along his spine.

A _priestess_.

He almost wanted to laugh at himself.

"If that is what you wish, we shall brave the caves now," he acquiesced.

What else could he say?


	4. Act IV

A/N: _Another week, another update. I believe that believes are a determining factor of a character's views, and so their personality and reactions, their own moral codes, are heavily influenced depending on what they expect out of life and of the afterlife, and this is particularly valid when drow are involved. Act IV develops some relationships and gives us some insight on_ _Mjirn's outlooks. No particular warnings apply. Please, enjoy and leave a review if you do to let me know what you like best of the story._

o O o

**Act IV**

o O o

A drow male and a priestess walked the streets of Sharessia and boarded the small boat towards the city of Sin.

This time, though, the drow walked first and the priestess was human.

Mjirn was not sure of the wisdom of his choice. He did not even understand why he had decided to show Valerie the caves where he lived and worked now. He didn't know why it was important.

The two of them had not parted ways after abandoning the cave system which lay below Goblin Island. Death had been close many a time during their venture, and they had found many unexpected things, such as the undead guarding a descending tunnel to the Upperdark, and when they, when she had grown too tired and weary to pursue the exploration, she had asked Mjirn how to make some petty coin from the salvaged loot.

Mjirn had told her, of course. He had even taken her to the proper merchants and peddlers. Somehow, this had naturally lead to a chat while sitting in front of the fireplace at the Tapper's Inn of Sharessia, where they made their last stop. There, he had decided that he did not want her to think of the Underdark and its dwellers as if they were like the goblin they had chased and killed that day.

Valerie was different from the other priestesses he knew, and therein lied the strange feeling that compelled him to take her to Mithuth. She refused to force him to obey or respect her, and she just talked to him as if his answers were of great importance. She had even shown interest when he had suggested the visit to the drow outpost.

And so the silent boatman took them away from the setting sun and into the soothing darkness of Mithuth.

A surfacer would not be killer not enslaved on sight, of that much Mjirn was sure, for the city prided itself on a commercial outlook, but still he kept throwing quick glances to the darkest corners, half fearing to run into one of his kin.

He was in no position to offer protection if a Matron Mother or a powerful male took an interest in Valerie, but in spite of it he guided her to the teleport stone.

Central Mithuth, as always, was magnificent: columns and statues and a ceiling ripe with stalactites merged together to speak of drow grandeur. He took a deep breath, inexplicably more at ease as soon as he entered an environment a hundred times more deadly.

"This is the main city," the explained, turning to gaze at her, his red-orange eyes glowing warmly in the infrared spectrum.

She smiled, a bit unsure, and shifted her weight.

"Is it considered… rude to use a light here?" she asked at length.

Of course. The city was sporting a magnificence… that she simply could not see, even though the decorative charms kept the plaza burning bright for Mjirn's own standards.

"No, you may use a light if you need it," he nodded, feeling foolish for not realizing sooner. "This is a trading post, so we accommodate to surfacers."

Her holy symbol almost immediately lit up, casting her features in sharp relief and displaying the wonders of dark elven masonry for her.

"It is so beautiful," she whispered then, turning around in a circle for a better look.

Mjirn just smiled.

"It is not what I wanted you to see."

They walked side by side to a secondary tunnel, a few paces long, and the gardens of Mithuth greeted their eyes beyond the narrow stone walls.

The cavern had dozens of magical braziers illuminating the perimeter and the crystal-like walls caught the light and reflected it a thousand times and more. Under the artificial rays lichen, moss, mushrooms and even plants thrived, so much so that the stone floor was covered by a soft green carpet from wall to wall. At the far end, a stream of clear, unpolluted water trickled into a shallow pond, forming a natural bathing chamber, and several marble benches, cleverly hidden behind the unexpected foliage, invited to an intimate encounter.

Valerie said nothing.

After a few heartbeats, her breath left her in a long, trembling sigh.

"This is… Can this truly be the Underdark?"

Mjirn nodded, satisfied and rewarded by her response.

"Yes. This is the Upperdark. As you can see, not all caves are like those of the goblinfolk."

Her answer, whatever it might have been, was cut short by the appearance of another male drow.

His white hair was pulled up in a ponytail, interwoven with thin braids in an elaborate style much like drow aristocracy, and he wore rich purple robes, but still Mjirn did not bow to him. There was something in the male's bearing that did not quite add up, that told his expert eye that the stranger did not hold as much importance as he projected.

On the other hand, if he abased his position his guest would, by default, become fair game.

"Surfacers are so quick to judge and condemn, and yet you bring one of them into our mist?" the male spat with scorn, wandering towards them.

"Mithuth is a free port. She may come and go as she desires," Mjirn countered with a calm tone, refusing to back off even though his shoulders were taut with tension.

However, the male noticed the slight shift of his body, his careful scrutiny, and he waved off a haughty hand.

"Do relax. If I wanted to kill you, you would be dead already," he intoned, his chin upturned.

All of a sudden, the stranger released a blast of eldritch fire upon an unsuspecting mushroom, tall like a good sized bush, to prove his words.

The display spoke volumes to Mjirn. First, the other drow was one of those magic stealing fakes, a warlock. Second, he was fast – but stood too close to be faster than his own dagger. And last, he needed to reinforce his superiority with bravado and intimidation, which meant that he was not superior at all.

"There is two of us. I sincerely doubt you would be able to prevail upon us both," Mjirn replied after a long stretch of charged silence.

"Ah, yes. You and your priestess slut," the other sneered, nodding towards Valerie's holy pendant. "What were you thinking, cavorting with human gods in the Spider Bitch's home?

That flippant reply also gave away a weak spot of the foolish male: a blasphemer, it would be too easy to turn the overzealous drow clergy on him. Mjirn all but smirked at the rich attires and noble demeanour: he was facing an imbecile, but before he could say anything more, Valerie spoke up.

"I don't follow a god but a goddess," she said, glancing between the two males and obviously attempting to alleviate the tension. "Sharess."

The male laughed.

"Hedonism and pleasure. An entertaining clergy, even if I was half hoping you would pledge your soul to the Broken God."

"Are you interested in the teachings of Ilmater?" Valerie asked, perplexed at the mere possibility.

Mjirn remained silent. He had been lost in the conversation as soon as surfacer deities had been mentioned.

"Oh, no, not quite," the drow replied with an amused chuckle. "I admit I am interested in your… human cults, as I must secure my soul against the Wall of the Faithless… But my interest in ilmaterites is more personal. I met them once, with all their preaching about pain and torture."

"And…?"

"And they took something from me."

"What was it?" the priestess immediately looked concerned, even worried in the drow's behalf.

"That, I shall not tell you," the male smirked and Valerie threw her hands up in the air.

"Why did you even mention it then?"

The male looked at a spot beyond her shoulder and launched off in a tirade, and Mjirn shifted to the side and took a tentative step forward, ready to intervene if the other drow was not as loony and harmless as he had originally thought.

"They keep saying that one must take other's pain, but then they dare to judge whether your pain is worth taking. They ask for converts and then decide that your soul must be cast to the dark pits, they damn _me_ to the deepest pits of the Underdark to preserve the light. They scorn my lifeforce, not deeming it worthy to have their damned, bleeding deity as a patron…!" the tone of his words seemed to be genuinely bitter, and it made Valerie pity and Mjirn hate him.

"That's so cruel," she whispered. " Everyone needs a patron deity…"

She was going to offer further comfort, but her words slapped Mjirn out of his silence like a lightning bolt.

"No," he snarled, with enough force to silence both his companions.

The woman turned to him then, her eyes confused under a delicate frown, clearly not understanding.

"No? But, didn't you hear him speak of the Wall? Do you even know what it is? An eternity of pain and oblivion awaits the faithless," she attempted to explain.

Mjirn forgot his place, his natural caution, his hard-learned reserve, and laughed.

"And how is that different from eternal torture and consumption, do tell? How is that any worse than being tortured to insanity and damned to forever wander through the Abyss, serving as food for better, female souls? How is that any worse than loosing your essence, being forcibly merged with seven other fools to become a twisted creature whose purpose is to hunt the spirits of other drow until they are broken and mad? How is that any worse than being trapped in a spider web of acid, so that your wails of pain can serve as an alarm to alert of the presence of intruders?" he went on, speaking louder and louder even as the other male cackled with glee at him and Valerie looked more and more horrified. "The Bitch has taken my life, my pride and my dignity, but she will _not_ have my soul," he finished, shoulders shaking at his own outburst, and he lowered his gaze in shame.

What had he said? How could he speak such words aloud?

He buried his hands in his short hair and the stranger laughed coldly.

"This visit to the gardens has proved to be more rewarding that I would have thought. Perhaps we will meet again, my friends. Perhaps on the wall," he added with a smirk before heading off along the winding paths, chuckling softly, deeming his purpose satisfied and leaving a stricken Valerie and a despairing Mjirn behind.

"Not all deities are so horrible," she said once they were alone anew, resting her hand upon his shoulder.

"Drow deities are," he replied with a shake of his head. "I apologize. This is not what I had in mind when I planned for this visit."

The woman nodded and smiled, accepting the change of topic.

"I imagine not. And I'd say it's time to return to the surface, perhaps?"

He sighed.

"Of course. I shall take you to the boat."

"You're not coming?" she tilted her head to the side, curiously, and he shook his in a negative.

"This is my home and there are matters I must attend to. I shall see you safe to Sharessia, though."

If she was somehow disappointed by his answer, she hid it well as they walked in silence back to the teleport stone and then to the port.

He helped her into the boat and bowed his farewell.

"Thank you for showing me the Underdark," she said as the boatman prepared to leave. "It was just like I imagined."

"Was it truly?"

"Yes. Beautiful and full of unexpected dangers."

He guessed she was right.

"It doesn't need to be always like this, Mjirn," she called out as the boat rowed her to the surface.

Away from the endless night, into the raising sun.

Mjirn merely smiled and lifted a hand in a small wave, like surfacers did.

She was wrong.

It could not be any other way. He was a drow. A _dhaerrow_. A traitor.

There was no other option but the agony of the maddened, traitorous goddess of the drow for, who else would have them?


	5. Act V

A/N: _Entering another character who will become fundamental in time, and offering a further look to Mjirn's true self: is redemption a line separating good from evil? Or is there always hope? As usual, read and enjoy, and let me know if you do. Next week's chapter is written, so the schedule will hold._

o O o

**Act V**

o O o

Mjirn hadn't thought of returning to the gardens when the woman left, but his steps took him away from the House of Shadows and to the edge of the natural baths anyway. The tickling sound of water calmed him and the tranquillity was welcome after the latest happenings.

The fact that the woman had resulted to be a priestess of a deity such as Sharess explained her presence in Haven, and perhaps it explained something else as well, like her kindness or…

"You are pathetic," the unknown male voice spoke the words close enough to his back that the hair at the nape of his neck stood upright with the puff of hot breath, and the cadence of drow speech made him shiver.

When you allowed someone to come that close unnoticed, you were dead.

But he was not, and when he turned he found that instead he was… alone. His confusion must have shown on his face – another unforgivable slip – for the stranger chuckled, a dark and menacing sound echoing from the shadows, form all places at once.

Mjirn wet his lips and whispered a short spell, drawing upon his innate drow abilities to see whatever was magically hidden.

His search revealed naught.

"Who are you?," he asked the thin air, eyes darting about him.

A sharp, mocking laugh answered him.

"You have spent too much time among surfacers if you come to a drow city and expect to find kindness."

"Not kindness, but a sign of a civilized encounter," Mjirn replied, forcing the words out through a dry throat.

The remark about surfacers had been far too casual to be a mere coincidence.

"A vagabond like you can't talk about manners," the voice snorted with disdain.

But suddenly, the shadows parted and revealed a male, tall for the standards of the race, covered from head to toe in a darkened adamantine plate. The cold, emotionless red eyes examined Mjirn from head to toe, taking into account the old tunic, worn leathers and short hair with one sweeping gaze.

Mjirn abated his gaze as he was evaluated and found wanting.

"What a pitiful sight," the male tsked. "Scum like you are not worthy to be called drow."

It stung. Mjirn had been called many a thing and he was bereft of anything of value –except for his race. It had kept him alive, moving forward, telling himself that the slave races were surely below him.

Was he to be denied even that much now?

"Need I be covered in riches to deserve the name, Master?" he asked, gritting his teeth.

"It is not an issue of wealth."

The imposing male drew an adamantine dagger and flicked it with one fluid movement, and the black blade flew true – straight at Mjirn's jugular vein.

Moving with reflexes born after two centuries of living on edge, he dropped to the side in a roll and came to a crouch, straightening again with deliberate care while he readied to dodge once more.

A warm tickle of blood fell down the side of his neck, where the dagger had broken skin before punching into the rocky wall behind him, and the other male laughed.

"A true drow would have attacked me. He would not sit there seething with fury."

Part of Mjirn wanted to do just so.

The other, rational part knew that his scrambling blows would not even bother the male, no more than the attacks of a fly, and that his old, dented dagger would not find a weak spot in the other's heavily enchanted armour.

"Attacking you now would be foolish and pointless," he said in the end.

He didn't add that perhaps one day it would not be so.

"_Pointless_?" in two strides, the unknown male was at his side and had grabbed his hair, yanking his head and leaving the long column of his neck exposed. Two strong, sword-calloused fingers found a pressure point and cut his breath, until his eyes watered and his body shook in desperation.

He didn't fight back.

Fighting always prolonged the game, so he just clenched his fists, trying to hold himself steady, trying to keep himself from trashing and convulsing.

The stranger observed his attempts with a smirk curling his thin lips, and then air suddenly rushed back in his lungs. With another rough pull and a jerk on his hair, the warrior brought Mjirn's ear to his warm lips.

"You may as well fall upon a sword and impale your heart, for your whole life, every waking moment of it, is but a _pointless_ waste of breath."

Mjirn was shoved back to the floor and when he regained his feet, barely a heartbeat later, he was by all accounts alone once more. He knew better, though: the unknown male had simply hidden, and he could have departed or still be close. He refused to break down for his viewing pleasure, so he held himself together with iron will while his body heaved great gulps of air and shuddered from the adrenaline.

Eventually his racing pulse calmed down and his frustration crystallized, twisting his lips in a small smile. He stood, not bothering to dust off his clothes, and pictured the fine adamantine plate, the perfectly coiffed hair and the cruel red eyes, fixing the image in his mind.

Pointless?

Not quite so. He had something to do once he reached his goal and became a mage. He had a indisputable purpose.

He no longer felt the impulse to stay idle, to reflect on impossibilities. He turned his back on the gardens and the heart wrenching views and hurried towards the House of Shadows. The central plaza was quiet, as always, but still he quickened his pace and threw cursory glances all about him, not wanting to run into…

A lone figure.

His heart leapt to his throat, afraid of encountering the warrior again, or perhaps the mad fool who had ruined his day from the first moment. But no. It was a female.

He did not have time to waste, much less on her.

He slumped his shoulders and lowered his head, doing his best to be unnoticed and on his way.

No such luck.

"Wait!," there was no commanding edge to her request, though: it was a plea, and the oddity of a drow female addressing him thusly stopped Mjirn dead in his tracks.

Turning, he levelled his gaze on the female, who smiled shyly at him.

"I am new to this city and can't find my way," she said with complete innocence.

What was she doing, admitting to such a thing? Was it a ploy? A trap? Was she playing him?

"Everyone in the surface was too strong, so I came here," she elaborated in his silence. "There were other drow, but they followed Eilistraee and I don't want to deal with them."

"So you thought to find help and _kindness_ in the Underdark?," Mjirn snapped, incredulous. "Or to find someone _weaker_?"

The bitterness of that idea, to be considered weak by a perturbed female too obtuse to understand the ways of her kin, had him moving even before he could check his own actions.

He dared to hit a female.

He shoved her backwards, against the fountain's balustrade, and his voice was a low growl as he asked with mockery:

"What would I get out of helping you?"

Mjirn fully expected her to lash out at him. He wanted her to. It would show him that the world still functioned as it must, that he still understood the game. Besides, the pain would take his mind off of his humiliation, of the other male's contempt. It would allow him to focus and move forward.

He would welcome her anger.

But she lowered her head in a submissive gesture that was too familiar for him. It was a farce of the very same posture he and countless other males were forced to hold while the females shredded their dignity. It was what he did to survive, and she was enacting a perverted representation that would never, ever be true.

"You won't help me, then," she whispered with a pitiful tone.

Her lament was cut short by a loud gasp.

Mjirn was holding a battered iron dagger to her neck, the tip puncturing the skin and mirroring his own dripping cut.

"We are drow," he said, paying to heed to the fact that the blade shook in his hand – either from outrage or from despair. "We don't help. We don't admit our weaknesses. We bow to our betters and punish scum such as yourself."

"You will kill me, then," the female cried, eyes open wide and fixated on his face.

He wanted to.

"I could," he replied, breathing hard.

He wanted to make her understand what she was doing, the absurdity of it all, the fact that only death awaited if she remained such an oblivious fool in Mithuth.

"I will," he assured her, abruptly stepping back, "if I ever see you again."

He slid his dagger back into the hidden sheath at the small of his back. His hand was still trembling.

"But what am I to do now?" the female, recovered from the fright, pleaded with him once more.

Mjirn turned his back on her and walked away, never looking back. She would go find a hole and die, for all he cared. She could hop up to and strap herself to a sacrificial altar. That was what her behaviour was begging for, anyway. If- no, _when_ she ran into the other drow of the City of Sin, into the trading Houses and the priestesses and the slavers, she would pay for her folly.

Once into the huge misty laboratory, he tore into a book on Weave theory with vicious enthusiasm, pushing the scared eyes and hopeless grimace of a barely adult female face out of his mind and replacing the images with complicate patterns and ancient words.

It would have been merciful of him to kill her, swiftly and painlessly. It would have saved her long days of torment and degradation.

He had not been able to do it.


	6. Act VI

A/N: _Next installment. Next week's chapter needs to undergo a mammoth revision, but I expect it to update on time. I hope you enjoy! Leave a review if you did, as always. Also, I've put up a poll in my profile. If you would give me your answer, it'd make me terribly happy - and it'll just take a few seconds for you._

o O o

Act VI

o O o

Mjirn had been reading much. For days, he had barely crawled out of the House of Shadows. He had devoured treaties on the principles of magic, on the fundaments of abjuration and evocation, he had consulted basic guides to crafting and he had taken notes upon notes on enchanting.

And when he had felt too tired, when his head had been about to explode, when the scrawling diagrams had made his eyes water and he could no longer distinguish the characters on the page… then he had kept on reading: the founding of Mithuth, the history of Haven, the political interactions with the neighbouring powers, the tension between the two most important cities in the island Kingdom - Sharessia and Kortuga, which apparently was an old Zhentarim post he'd yet to visit – and the different laws and customs governing each.

He had even bothered to read a play, The ghost of Conyberry, and a collection of tales, Wind by the fireside.

Still, all that reading wouldn't have kept him alive if Valerie, Merrick and another drow male hadn't found him when they did.

After spending every last copper to his name, to the point where he could no longer afford the daily ration of stale bread which had sustained him while he studied, he had boarded the small skiff to Sharessia hoping to capture enough loot to afford him another investigative jaunt, and that much was normal.

However, he never went to Goblin Island.

His old parchments had shown him something better, if only he dared to take it, and so dare it he did.

Chauntea's Hold was a small islet, close enough to swim to Sharessia if need be, where once upon a time a small druidic settlement had been built. But then, about two decades prior, something had happened and at the time only charred land and a few blackened planks remained. Mjirn couldn't care less about that tragedy, though: he was concerned with the speculated cause. What nowadays was the so-called Chauntea Underground had, at some point, been the laboratory of a mage and, going by his alleged experiments, he had been a powerful one. The notes Mjirn had found pointed to advanced works on golems and other forms of intelligent life – mostly successful, too, up to the moment when one test had gone awry and had utterly destroyed the wizard, most of his facilities _and_ the druidic settlement.

He wasn't sure what he had been expecting to find in there: perhaps notes, ingredients for spells or enchantments, a scrap golem or two… it would have been better than the trash hoarded by the goblins.

What he _had_ found, though… The power controls of the lab had broken. The structures, once seeping energies from the elemental planes and conducting it towards the wizard's experiments, were gaping wounds in the fabric of the Prime Material and maddened, wrathful weirds of fire and earth nested in the deserted corridors. Half baked projects fought their way free from the elaboration chambers, and mithral hybrids of man and insect stalked the sealed rooms. Gargantuan iron golems who hadn't forgotten the will of their long dead master guarded the entryway to collapsed tunnels, once important. And rust eating monsters. The high presence of iron and other metallic alloys had called the little buggers forth from wherever they were hiding, and they lurked in every shadowy corner, acid dripping from their cockroach-like mandibles.

Mjirn had become good, oh so very good at his trade. There was will, and purpose, and perfectly shaped tendrils of the Weave behind every spell he shot. There was also intelligence in his choices, as he pelted fire with sleet, and used acid to undo the earth, and sent shocks of lightning to wash over conductive steel.

But always, always, there is something new to learn.

Mages run out of spells. They invariably do.

Mjirn never knew what hit him last. He never figured out how the others managed to drag him out of that hellish place. After the unending darkness, his only feeling was that of infinite warmth spreading from the core of his being to his numb limbs as the healing magic mended him.

For once, he did not curse the sun when its bright rays stung his eyes, and focused instead on the face looming over his prone form.

"W… why?" he managed to croak at Valerie's lopsided grin.

"Merrick saw you heading off to Chauntea earlier in the day, and when he told us we all decided that it might be a good plan to check the place out," she replied with a shrug.

Mjirn closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep, shaky breath. Merrick must have known about the labs and figured to share in the spoils, but…

"That does not answer my question at all," he said, pushing himself to a sitting position and scanning his surroundings out of habit, "but I shall not press the point."

Valerie sat back, a smudge of blood adorning her high cheekbone, and looked back to her two companions. Merrick merely shrugged and proceeded to keep on shifting to a backback, and the other one, a male drow unknown to Mjirn, remained silent and vigilant. The woman chuckled a bit to hide her confusion and shrugged again.

"What do you mean? You came to the isle alone, were gone for the whole day, we learned of this fact and decided to come and check on you. What else do you want me to say?"

Mjirn took his eyes off of the other drow and offered a small smile to Valerie.

"That is why you came to Chauntea's. It does not tell me why you chose to help me, and that was my original inquiry."

"What _else_ were we supposed to _do_? Watch and enjoy!"

"This is not the Underdark, brother," the other drow interrupted then in a soft tone. "We sought to help for the act of helping itself, nothing else."

Eilistreean. The word rose in Mjirn's mind, unbidden, and he looked at the male sceptically. He knew a bit of his creed, even though it was only what was taught to all drow and what was whispered in the alleyways, and it had always sounded so… _weak_.

"Besides, I wanted to help because I cared," Valerie interrupted smoothly. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily for Mjirn in the long run, she remembered well how susceptible he was to discussing religion and so she shifted the conversation with a question of her own. "Why did you enter there alone, anyway?"

Mjirn rose to his feet and, after a heartbeat of consideration, held out his hand to help her up in a rather uncharacteristic gesture.

"I hoped to learn something from the ruins. The sheer scale of the research done below this island guarantees the finding of a salvageable scrap or two."

Valerie took his hand, realizing for the first time that it was no bigger than her own, that the male pulling her weight off the ground was almost a head shorter than her, and lighter by quite a few pounds… and that it still seemed an effortless gesture to him.

She shook herself and smirked down into squinted red eyes.

"Well, who isn't answering the questions now? I asked why you came _alone_, not why you came at all."

Mjirn couldn't help but laugh at her reply. It was true, wasn't it? But then, that was the problem: he had grown used to never lying, for it never ended well when truth-detecting priestesses were nearby, but to hide the truth within the truth, even when it was not necessary.

"I did not have the means to hire out an escort, but the need to find some resources had become rather pressing."

"Hire? You could have told us!"

The way she kept saying 'us' was not lost to Mjirn, and he darted a glance between her and her two companions. Merrick was oblivious to the conversation, shifting through junk – junk Mjirn recognized as having found and collected in the Underground himself – and the other male remained ever vigilant, studying him with intensity from just a few paces behind the priestess of Sharess.

Where they a team now? How had it come to be?

He frowned a bit, his hand reaching up to brush some stray hair out of his eyes.

"I am sorry. I did not want to impose… I did not even know if my request would be welcome."

Valerie seemed to be on the brink of either striking him or pulling her own hair out and she turned a pleading look to her silent drow companion, who offered a small, serene smile.

"His mind has not left the Underdark yet. It will take him some time to get used to our ways, just as it will take his eyes some time to get used to the light," he said. "Believe it or not, this friendly behaviour is as alien to him as midday sun."

There was truth in that comment, of course. Perhaps because it was right, it irked Mjirn so much. _Our_ ways, _friendly_ behaviour, _alien_… So condescending. Again, he was judged and found wanting. It truly was no different: this male still thought himself his better. Different ways to justify the distinction, perhaps, and instead of pain and punishment his failure was met with the kind of sympathy reserved to infirm people. It was not as if his position was deemed insufficient: his _whole_ judgment was considered impaired, as if he were not a complete person, not able to reach the standards.

The worst part? He could not offer a single thing to prove him wrong.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and Valerie smiled at him encouragingly once more.

"It's okay," she told him. "You'll get used to having friends and relying on us. You'll just have to spend less time holed up in your study, down in that city."

Mjirn knew the two of them were patronizing him, but still his lips curled with a sincere smile and he nodded. It might be wishful thinking, but he quite thought that the prospect of spending more time with her could make his lonely days of research a little more bearable.

"Hey, elf," Merrick's voice called out all of a sudden. "I hate to interrupt your little tête-à-tête there, but… What in the Abyss did you want to _do_ with this crap?"

The human was holding up several long, narrow scraps of a dark alloy, almost black. Mjirn smiled. They were the remains of a few contraptions, they were whatever scant spare piece he had found, and they were the first step towards the completion of his goal.

"Adamantine," he replied with the unabridged truth and a long, surprised silence followed. "If I am not severely mistaken, what you hold in your hands should be enough to refine at least one ingot of workable adamantine, mayhap more. I had hoped to use the other items you have already pilfered through to pay the local smith and to have him craft something for me."

"Oh," Merrick looked decidedly uncomfortable for a moment and Valerie giggled at his crestfallen face, but he recovered with remarkable ease and cleared his throat.

"Well, as it is, I know Sharessia's smith quite well and I'm sure he'll make this something for free, since you provide the materials and are kind enough to give him whatever adamantine's left afterwards…" he said.

Mjirn was shocked, but in a pleasant way. The human was keeping the little gold and the few cheap broken gems he had found, sure, but he had also contributed to save his life and was offering to help with the smithy. Surely there was an ulterior motive, but…

"That's settled, then," Valerie chirped, shouldering her mace and shield and dropping her free arm around Mjirn's shoulders. "Let's go order this… whatever it is, and then it's time to drown a few pints at the inn."

Merrick nodded, grabbed what now was his own backpack and started away towards the spot where the small skiff linking the place to Sharessia waited ashore.

"This time the booze's on you, woman. You could drink a damn dwarf under the table!" he called out in a good-humoured way.

The young woman laughed and started to follow, only to stop after a couple of steps and turn back towards the Eilistreean drow.

"You coming, Izzhris?"

The male shook his head.

"Since we came all the way here, I am going to take a look at the place and pay my respects at the old settlement. I shall join you later, though."

Valerie nodded and moved towards the awaiting Merrick, hugging Mjirn a little tighter and inadvertently digging the ridges of her armour into his side.

He did not complain. It felt good to be in his place.


	7. Act VII

A/N: _On drow and love. On Sharessan priestess and love. Does it really need more of an introduction? Please, read, enjoy, and review if you do._

o O o

Act VII

o O o

Ten inches of pure beauty.

Merrick had held up his offer, and the local smith had agreed to tackle the mass of twisted metal to try and refine the precious adamantine out of it. The amount of work required had been vast, and Mjirn and Valerie had stood in a corner of the heated workshop well after Merrick had raced away - half because watching the heavily built man grunting and swearing was boring and half, Mjirn was sure, because he wanted to sell his loot before it was reclaimed.

No matter. Male and woman had found a comfortable spot, mostly protected from the fumes, and had waited for the ringing in their ears to stop, for the blade to be ready. At first, the pair had tried to chat, but soon they realized it was impossible to do so and had merely watched the manufacturing process, offering each other silent, but nonetheless pleasant company. The result, which was presented once the accursed sun was gone and the first silvery stars of the evening started to shine upon Sharessia, had been breathtaking:

Ten inches of double-edged adamantine, with a fuller carved down the middle of the inch-wide undulating and flaming blade all the way from tip to shoulder. A slender cross of adamantine guarded the leather-wrapped darksteel hilt which fit snugly in Mjirn's hand.

It was lighter, faster than anything he had ever wielded. As he practiced a few stabs and thrusts under Valerie's and the smith's amused stares, Mjirn realized that the dagger seemed to be attached to his hand - no, seemed to be his own hand. It had been balanced for him, it was perfect for his touch alone.

He grinned, red-orange eyes reflecting the light of the dying embers of the forge, and offered a small bow to the smith. Human he may be, but he was clearly an artist of his trade.

"You have my thanks," he said.

"Nay, lad," the bulky man replied with a gruff voice. "It was good doing business with ye. I'm glad ye like it, that all."

Yes, it had been a good business. The man would surely be able to forge at least two more daggers, or even a hand-and-a-half sword with the rest of the alloy, which he could keep as payment. The weapons would surely sell for a small fortune, but Mjirn didn't feel cheated: he had what he needed.

Tugging his old dirk free from its sheath, he let it clatter over the table lining the walls of the workshop and saw both Valerie and the smith wince at the sight.

"What is wrong?" he asked as he slid his new treasure in place, hidden at the small of his back.

"Sweet Mother of Cats..." Valerie pouted. "How could you carry that thing along and call it a 'weapon'?"

Three pairs of eyes fixed on the dirk. It was old, Mjirn would admit that much. He had stolen it from a corpse he had found in an alley of Maelrassin, something around... was it eighty years ago already? It was made of cheap, plain steel, and although it was well cared for, the blade showed signs of its long, useful life.

If he left aside all sentimental judgement, Mjirn conceded that another way to express the same idea would be to state that it was a piece of shit.

He chuckled a little, and the others shook their head, smiling. Then, Valerie picked the old dirk, dangled it in the air and winked:

"Well, just looking at it I can tell you two have... history," she waggled her eyebrows, and both Mjirn and the tired smith laughed at her comment. "I know it'll pain you to part ways, but alas: it must be done. I suggest we go to the tavern and celebrate your past. I'm sure both you and your old beloved will face your future with more aplomb if there's some booze in your belly."

Mjirn considered the offer for only a heartbeat before nodding his assent.

"Besides, I am sure that our host will be most eager to see us part."

"That, too!" the man, who had started to organize his stock for closing time, called out after the rapidly retreating pair with a hearty guffaw of laughter.

For some reason, they ran. There was no motive, it was a senseless waste of energy, but as they crisscrossed the streets and alleyways to reach the Tapper's Inn, they ran and grinned and Mjirn basked in the sight of the surface world away from the burning bright, secluded from its loud crowds and its judgmental stares. There was just the stars peeking above, and the curious noises made by a city in its sleep, and the figure of Valerie in her tan breeches and padded tunic running ahead just as the unnoticeable weight at his back reminded him of the sweet taste of success.

Yes, perhaps he had, in the end, been nearly killed in the Underground. Perhaps he owed his life to a renegade and a group of surfacers.

He did not care.

Just a scant tenday ago, he'd have died the instant he dared to enter the old lab. Now, though, he had held out as he scouted chamber after chamber, relying only on his own strength. The adamantine blade had been made, and it was his, and it would cut through anything as if it were no more than silk. He was moving with bounds and leaps towards his goal, and he felt exultant.

Maybe his mood was just spreading, maybe she had reasons all of her own, but when they burst through the front door of the inn, Valerie turned to him, her eyes gleaming as much as his.

"Let's go upstairs," she said, averting her gaze for a moment to examine the noisy common room before looking at him again. "I know you are not truly comfortable around loud surfacers."

Mjirn's brow furrowed in the slightest gesture of confusion. It was true that he hated to be surrounded by that many shouting, rowdy, drunk _Iblith_, but...

"Would you not wait for your friends? They were to come, they may even be here already."

Indeed, there was enough of a commotion for Merrick and Izzhris to be sitting at a table unnoticed. Still, Valerie smiled and reached out, taking his right hand between both of hers.

"They missed the whole thing already... If they wanted the drinks, they should have been smoked just like us," she joked lightly before lowering her eyes, her easy smile turning into something else altogether. "I'd rather celebrate just with you," she finished, just loud enough for him to hear over the roaring of the tavern floor.

Mjirn's pulse quickened on instinct. Her build was wrong, and her colour was wrong, and the language and tone of her words were very wrong, but in spite of it all he recognized the desire lying beneath her open invitation.

It amazed him: it was an invitation. He was free to say no and stay in the common room, or to return to Mithuth, and it was not only because they were in Sharessia, or because she was human while he was drow, but because... she wanted him to choose.

His eyes dropped to his limp hand, still captured between hers, and he studied the contrast of obsidian black against her peach skin, tanned from her adventuring lifestyle. He threaded his fingers through hers and wondered how it would look, if their bodies were entwined like that.

He wanted to find out.

Valerie smiled at his small nod and let out the breath she had been holding. She relinquished her hold on him to navigate the floor, and she barely paid attention to the people she was jostling or the groups she was cutting through as she opened a path towards the stairs. Just one flight up, and then the first door to the right: that was the room she had been renting since she arrived.

It wasn't an organized place, with most of her things just spread over the small table and her clothes draped over the back of the chair, but Mjirn didn't stare at the disarray and she closed the door with a soft 'thud' behind him.

She licked her lips and turned towards him.

No, he wasn't judging her chaotic personal space, as some other visitors had. His eyes were just fixed on her, his red-orange gaze darkened to a golden vermilion as he defiantly studied her features.

Not so long ago, he'd not have looked beyond her boots. He was changed, since the last time she saw him. He was… intense. Even though he was shorter than her, there was something about the way he was holding himself that night that made her feel as if his presence towered, filling the room.

And yet, he stood still as a statue, three feet away from her, his lips curling in a hint of a private smile as he waited on her desires, not making a move.

Anytime, she would have sworn she preferred muscular, big humans but –

"I want you," she blurted, and the hoarse tone of her voice surprised her.

Hearing her words – her command? her plea? -, Mjirn's fingers moved on their own after long decades of practice. He worked free the laces of his tunic with ease, and then the clasps on his belt and the drawstring of his pants, exposing his body with languid movements the elegance of which he was not even aware of. Even as he responded to her, though, there was a part of his mind detached from the scene.

That detached part argued that, no matter the species nor the creed, sex didn't change, for all the flaunted remarks about 'lovemaking'. It was, that jagged part of him said, just a matter of satisfying the desires of a female when she requested so.

But another, smothered, whispering part said that, though it might certainly be the same thing, it felt different. Now, this timid part said, he did not need fear her punishment. There was no threat moving him towards her pleasure. He moved by himself.

Naked, bathed only in what little starlight filtered through the window, he held out his hand in silent reckoning and Valerie took it with a trembling sigh.

He felt a tendril of his own desire uncurl and he smiled. It _was_ different.

This time, he wanted it.

o O o

Morning was starting to colour the sky when Mjirn's fingers reached out for the door. There had been something odd and mystifying about spending the whole night there, in the inn's room, cuddled at Valerie's side as she stroked his hair and back with gentle caresses, but he could no longer delay his departure.

"Wait," her voice called out from the bed, though, and he stopped and turned back to face her.

Her hair was tousled and when she ran her hand through the short locks, she only succeeded in making them stand in every which way. That bedraggled appearance framing her tentative smile and dilated eyes only served to make him notice how young and innocent she was compared to him, and his lips curled in a soft smile as he regarded her, waiting.

"It has been an amazing night," she started, and he knew she was stalling but nodded nevertheless.

He saw little point in denying the truth, anyway.

"I'd like to repeat it sometime," she said, and took a deep breath. "But I can't promise... I will..."

Mjirn moved away from the door and sat in the bed, still smiling a bit as he tried to reassure her with his silence even though he was beginning to feel confused at her hesitance. For all her blunt honesty and open behaviour, he'd not have expected her to wrestle with whatever it was she wanted to tell him now. Certainly, she had not seemed to be shy that night, but...

"Look," she rubbed the back of her naked neck and squared her shoulders, "the thing is, you do know I worship Sharess."

"Yes, I am aware," he replied slowly, not quite understanding the implications.

"So, sex is part of our devotions. Since she's the goddess of sensual pleasure and hedonism, and all acts of lovemaking please her."

"I am not certain that I know what you mean to tell me."

"That I liked tonight, and I like you... no, I _do_ care about you, but I can't promise you that there won't be other people I will share a bed with. Sometimes the moment comes and I... It won't be just you. But I want you to be here, just... not alone?"

He arched a brow and felt his smile stretching into a lopsided grin.

"You need not explain yourself. I understand that I have no claims."

"Good -" she grinned with relief and then frowned with confusion. "You... knew?"

He just shrugged with a small nod.

"But I thought you disliked religion and knew little about surface cults and..." she trailed off, and it was his turn to look confused.

"It is not religion. It is... your right. To take whatever companion you deem best."

It took a few long moments for it to register, and she sounded stricken when she spoke next.

"You mean to say that you expect to be used for sex whenever a female wants you only to be tossed aside afterwards?"

"I do not have the right to refuse when someone whose status is higher than mine requests my company."

Someone. Anyone? She tried not to focus on it and pressed on:

"What if you were married? Or in a relationship?"

"Married?" he shook his head at the alien term.

"When you promise to be with someone for life."

"We... that never happens. Anyone can keep a partner by their side as long as they have the power to do so, and the bond will be respected by all who wish to avoid retaliation from the person whose position is higher, but there is always another lover, younger or stronger or more exotic, and so the first partner is discarded. Sometimes he is killed, which I imagine would fulfil the 'for life' requirement, but it is not so common an occurrence."

"No, no no no, that's not what I mean at all," Valerie leant forward, tangling her hand in his hair and pulling him to her, as if she could console herself by holding the drow. "That's treating a person like an object. That's wrong. It should never be like that: Sharess knows we all are free to bestow our affections."

She remained silent for a moment, the warmth of his body seeping into her and keeping the shivers of distaste at bay. As her hand rubbed up and down his spine, her gaze fell on one narrow, long scar marring his skin near the small of his back. She had hardly paid any attention, she had not really looked at him that night beyond what they were doing and how he was making her feel, and she berated herself.

"Was it like that for you?," she asked, pulling away to look at him with a new understanding.

There were more greyish marks in his body: in both his forearms, across his chest, in his lower belly. The scars were both old and new, all of them narrow and long, as if made with a whip or cane. His body was more thin than slender and his gaze was too calm for the horror they were discussing.

"I wanted to be with you," he said, with that uncanny ability to answer something without saying a thing, and she cupped his face.

"And before that? Were you ever...?"

"Yes. Of course."

Yes. Of course. Valerie forgot the long dissertation she had prepared to explain how impossible it was for her to be tied down to a single man and instead kissed him, with tenderness and hunger and rage and love and everything else in between.

It was the only thing she could do not to cry.


	8. Act VIII

A/N: _Updating in advance, because that's the only way I can get my hands to stop editing the thing. I really look forward to your opinions on this particular chapter, though I have an inkling that there's going to be some hate... Please, read, enjoy, and review if you do!_

o O o

**Act VIII**

o O o

Later that very morning, Mjirn returned to Mithuth with a sense of calm that he had not felt before. He could not even pinpoint the cause for his apparent contentment, but that didn't change the fact that he was relaxed, and his mind was at ease and ready to pursue his investigations while Valerie went about her daily tasks, whatever they might be.

He smiled with the recollection when he touched the teleport stone to the House of Shadows, and wondered about the strange concept the woman seemed to be so worried about - jealousy. It was something so outlandish that he'd not have come up with it on his own, and yet Valerie had placed an enormous importance on it, trying to make sure that he did not develop the affliction and that he understood that she did not belong to him.

Of course she did not: Mjirn was in no position to hold valuable possessions such as partners, and even if he were... he frowned at the realization as he picked up an old, dusty tome. Even if he were in such a position, he'd have no desire to own living property. He was too familiar with the rage, and the helplessness, and the humiliation, and he found no pleasure in inflicting the predicament on others: he'd rather keep to willing companions, however fleeting they might be.

Besides, he thought, they were safer. Still a threat, but less of it than if they were seething, raging and desperate souls with nothing to lose by killing whoever they perceived to be the cause of all evils.

That train of thought was similar to a part of Sharessan philosophy, he guessed. From what he had learned - through the little comments and his own observance - fleeting liaisons, beauty and pleasure were to her what third born sacrifices, betrayal and strife were to Lloth. It was interesting how there were so many different ways for the gods to earn their due, he reflected... and then he froze.

His hands remained steady, gripping his unread tome through sheer willpower and he fought to suppress the shudder going down his spine, his eyes lingering on the swirling mist that covered the chambers of the House.

He had been such a fool, forgetting where he was.

There was a small chuckle coming from behind and Mjirn closed his eyes, partly to collect himself and partly to hide his screaming despair. He should have noticed. The knee-high whorls of vapour had flickered, the warm and cool currents of the room had shifted, he had _seen_ it all, he had seen _him_...

And yet he had allowed him, once more, to creep up behind him, unfettered and unnoticed.

He could scream at his own stupidity until his throat grew raw, and still he'd have more expletives left to call himself.

When he opened his eyes to find perfectly coiffed white hair and a haughty sneer and an intricate adamantine plate mail, he saw in the other male's eyes the knowledge of his failure laced through with amusement at his belated realization. Mjirn wanted to draw his dagger and drive it through the other's heart, but one glance at his easy stance and lazy hand hovering over the pommel of an enchanted blade told him in no uncertain terms that it was not the time. That he was not ready. So, instead, he deliberately closed the book, his gaze showing a calm he did not feel as he regarded the male.

"Entertaining as it might be, I have not come to trade words with _Iblith_ today," the male said, a smirk curling his lips with mockery. "The Mistress wants to see you. Come," he added over his shoulder, already walking out of the laboratory.

Mjirn blinked in confusion, and then felt like there was not enough air to breathe left in his lungs. He had forgotten. The female who had taken him to Mithuth for the first time, the one who had granted him permission to use the House of Shadows, would of course expect to reap her rewards. He had grown so complacent that, when she had left him alone and in peace for a tenday, he had simply pushed her out of his mind.

Leaving on the table the tome he had wanted to study, he hurried after the retreating cloak of the other male. He could have thrown a barb about him being some kind of delivery slave, but he was too preoccupied with his own predicament and he only allowed himself a side thought to wonder at the male's presence.

Who was he, anyway?

The pair left the House of Shadows via the teleport stone and walked through the silent, deserted plaza of central Mithuth towards an opening which had been closed with a heavy mushroom-wood door, and in the meantime the male did not deign to look back to Mjirn once. He felt the temptation to stab the unknown drow on the back arising, stronger with every step they took, but it'd be an unwise move: the warrior, for that was obviously what he was, might look idle while striding forth, but he would never be relaxed while there was another dark elf behind him. If he moved, Mjirn knew, he'd be killed on the spot, so he focused on taking deep breaths and keeping his eyes open.

The door had a sign carved on it, announcing the place as an inn. The Black Lotus Inn.

The interior could not be further from the Tapper. The few groups of patrons were silent, hunched over their drinks, shrouded in cloaks while speaking in hushed tones to their companions. There was no music, and the only ambiance sound was the screeching voice of a rusted chain, swaying back and forth from where it was secured to the ceiling. Mjirn cast a quick glance towards that corner and couldn't hold back a shudder when he saw the old, crusted blood and the manacles affixed over the otherwise normal table.

This was a place for business... for drow business, he realized as he followed his guide to a delicate looking backdoor.

The male paused and turned, regarding Mjirn with contempt for a long moment before stepping aside.

"Welcome to the private suites of the Black Lotus," he said, opening the door with a flourish.

There was no real choice to be had, that much Mjirn knew, and so he braced himself and crossed the door into the dimly lit room.

Only, as soon as he did so he felt a lurching sensation and his step faltered, and he realized that he had not crossed a door at all but a portal.

He swallowed a curse - the City of Sin teemed with dimensional pockets, it seemed - and discreetly glanced around, trying to get his bearings back: if you didn't know the board you were playing on, you were likely to lose.

The room he had been transported to was more of a chamber than anything else: it was big, and a dais with a huge king-sized bed dominated the cosy sitting area. There was no other furniture, except for a full body mirror placed at the foot of the bed, and that was where she waited.

She was pretending to admire her appearance, but her eyes were watching his every movement like a hawk's. Mjirn remembered well her gaze, and as soon as he met her reflection's stare he dropped his own eyes, shoulders hunched in a humble posture, and waited for the blow to come with baited breath.

She looked much too happy for this reunion not to have dire consequences.

He heard a light chuckle, something closer to the purr of a great feline, and the female turned away from the mirror and stalked towards him. While he trailed her every movement, shoulders tense in anticipation, his eyes never left the floor and she had to grip his chin and forcefully tilt his head up when she came close enough.

"My, my," she said in mock worry, "I see that your eyes are still the same beautiful shade of blood orange. I was _beside myself_, thinking that the sun might have burned them."

Mjirn could not help a sharp intake of breath at the comment and she grinned, her nails digging into his jaw.

"You thought I ignored how much my new pet enjoyed the surface? But of course not. How could I leave my property so neglected?"

"I must apologize and beg your pardon, Mistress," he managed to react. "If I had only known you disapproved, I would have hastened to find another way to acquire supplies."

"Of course. I know what a good pet you are, my sweet. And I know you have always had my interests at heart, even though Amir keeps reporting to me differently."

"I swear, Mistress, I have never thought to wrong you or..."

"Obviously you have not," she said, waving her free hand in clear dismissal. "But you must understand that a Patron's duty is to be concerned if he finds his Mistress' items about to be stolen, no?"

Items stolen? Mjirn felt as if he was in a nightmare: he was aware that the item she was referring to was none other than himself, but who would steal him? He had not talked to other Houses, he had not given her reason to believe that he tried to betray her - not even the male in the adamantine plate, who he could now put a name to, would have found him at fault of anything other than his complete obeisance.

It was ridiculous, it was...

"Do not worry, pet," she said, and he realized that his features must have betrayed his confusion and fear. "Amir might be very good, but he is still a male and wont to err, and so I have enlightened him about your true intentions. Know that I am pleased by your endeavours."

She smirked, and Mjirn realized that the game had changed: now, he had to understand what she was referring to in order to win. The prize would be his life, so the drow treaded with the utmost care and attempted to buy time, to pry more details, to learn what was his perceived betrayal and his alleged endeavours.

"I am rewarded by your pleasure, Mistress," he stalled and she chuckled, her fingers abandoning his jaw and sliding down his neck, caressing his fluttering pulse with dark amusement.

"Indeed. That is exactly what I told Amir."

Something clicked in Mjirn's head. The chamber they stood on, the opening line about the surface, the supposed robbery, the pleasure...

_No_. It couldn't be.

A look of fleeting panic crossed his eyes, unbidden, and her caressing hand clamped like a vice over his windpipe.

"You have, indeed, been most diligent in your search of a _pleasing_ gift, my sweet. I will enjoy it thoroughly..." she sneered and released his neck, her fingers once more running up and down his skin with false tenderness as he heaved in a great gulp of air and tried to hold himself together, his mind still trying to deny the truth.

"As my most heartfelt thanks, I believe the least I could do is to invite you to accompany me," and, easy as that, she was back to purring, enticing him while she cast a look back towards the bed. "The show should prove to be entirely too entertaining, don't you believe?"

And she pointed to the floor they were standing on, and Mjirn's eyes widened when his pupils, now accustomed to the lack of proper illumination, discerned the symbols written on the golden circle.

He was a wizard, and the flowery script was not exactly the same one he'd use, but the basics were there: the runes of protection, of recalling, of sapping, of compulsion. He could even read the words, understand their intrinsic cadence.

But it was worse, so much worse, because he could understand their meaning.

"I am honoured and humbled by your generosity," he began, his lips curling in a small smile and his eyes half-closing. "Unfortunately, I am compelled to admit that I am unworthy. Or rather," he added when she was about to reply, "my findings are unworthy. As you said once, Mistress, worth is everything and I strive to learn that lesson."

"What are you implying, male?" her own eyes closed to thin slits and she regarded him suspiciously. His was a move she hadn't planed.

"I thought I had found the perfect gift for you, Mistress. Alas, I made a mistake: I delayed in testing its quality, as I was remiss to sully it for you, and thus it was too late before I discovered that it was lacking."

"Lacking?" she looked amused and Mjirn allowed himself a moment's celebration: if he had her attention, he could do this.

"Yes: it was crude and weak, clumsy and graceless. It would have fizzled out before its time, like a poorly cast enchantment without a spell focus. It would never be good enough to deserve its role, Mistress."

"And yet I was in such high spirits about this," she said, pouting, bothered but playing along for her own enjoyment.

That was his cue.

"Mistress, I beg you, do not let the opportunity go," he said, gambling with a sultry look of his own into her eyes. "I have been preparing for this... I have been preparing for you for so long now. I strove with every fibre of my being to prove that your kindness was not misplaced on me. I have thought of a hundred different ways to show you my gratitude, and while I am still lacking, I would dare to ask you to consider me."

"You?," she was surprised, and he saw in her gaze that he had won.

"Can I not please you enough, Mistress?" he asked with fake decorum.

She chuckled and let her nails trail down his chest.

"... Yes, you are not without talent. Very well, then: you shall take the place of my honoured guest, and you shall entertain me. If you cannot, then I shall have to try to finish this lovely soiree in some other way. Do strip, my pet."

Mjirn nodded and obeyed. He knew she was aware of his gambit, but thankfully she had found it amusing and decided to let him perform. He also knew the meaning behind her warning: if he so much as attempted to refuse, if he failed to deliver, she would go back to her original plan.

He left his neatly folded clothing on the floor, in a corner, and steeled himself as her voice chanted louder and louder. When the crescendo finally broke, he felt a turbulence of raw evil and endless pain coalescing at his back and, in spite of his resolution, he had to swallow.

It was okay, he told himself. He would withstand this. _He_ could withstand this. _She_ would shatter beyond repair.

He turned and faced the Glabrezu demon, vaguely aware of the female lounging on the bed behind them with a twisted smile.

o O o

She felt the bile rising at the back of her throat and had to put her hand to her lips to overcome the urge to vomit. It was clear that coming to see him had not been a good idea, never mind that it had seemed harmless enough at first.

"Disgusting," she croaked, thinking aloud and not even realizing it.

But it was as if the words had never left her, for all the effect they caused: the scene continued to unfold and she stood there, frozen, watching in spite of herself.

"You are upset," the drow male standing by her side said with a hint of concern. "I should not have brought you here: I thought you knew about this, when you asked to see Mjirn."

Valerie almost laughed. Was he so well known for his habits, then? She had been a fool, pitying his stories and feeling anxious because of the hints he had dropped, and he had played her well.

"No, it is alright," she managed to reply. "I would have kept searching for him anyway, and who knows where I might have ended up."

That much was the truth. She had come to Mithuth as soon as she had found a free moment, following a strange compulsion to see him and drag him away from his kind and his past, and she'd not have relented in her self-imposed quest. It had been sheer luck that she had run into this other drow, who had been kind enough to take her to where Mjirn was putting on the show of his life.

The revolting sight would haunt her for days, yes, but she knew better now.

"I think I should return to Sharessia now, though," she said, and the male hurried to turn around and exit the hall, guiding her along the labyrinthine tunnels all the way back to the teleport stone and the port cavern.

"I am sorry," the male said. "I just hope you will not let a single experience colour your perception of us all?"

She found the words familiar – it was the same thing Mjirn had told her after exploring the goblin caves, was it not? Not to let the goblinoid races set the standard for all Underdark dwellers. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. Luckily, she had met several dark elves while in Haven, and she had never been a judgemental type anyway.

"Don't worry, Amir," she said with a smile. "I'm mature enough to understand that every individual is different."

The drow climbed into the boat with her and grinned roguishly:

"I will come with you to make sure you arrive safely. Then, perhaps, you would have a drink with _this_ drow? I am sure the... experience will be easier to forget with company."

Valerie laughed. The weapon master was right in that she did not want to be alone now, and while she had thought to find either Izzhris or Merrick to drink with and rant at, she guessed that her new companion would do as well as anyone else.

"Sure thing. First bottle's on me, what do you say?"


	9. Act IX

A/N: _A long chapter dealing with the aftermath. I hope you'll like how things play out, and I hope it'll make as much sense to you as it makes to me. Please, let me know your thoughts._

**Important Notice**: _because of all the editing, now the rating has gone down to _**T**_, since there're no graphic explicit scenes. However, if you feel uncomfortable with this new arrangement, let me know and I'll change it back. Also, although the story is set in a part of the Forgotten Realms developed through a module made for Neverwinter Nights 2, I feel now that it has moved away from the game and would be more suited to the _**Books-Forgotten Realms category**_: therefore, unless someone thinks differently –in that case, please, let me know- I'll move the fic to that category when I make next week's update._

_Next week's update is the last chapter of this fic, and will be on time._

o O o

**Act IX**

o O o

At some point, the runes anchoring the spell in place weakened and the Glabrezu faded into a shapeless cloud of malice and anger, sucked back to its native plane.

At some point, Mjirn's body gave out on him and he collapsed against a corner, leaving a growing pool of blood to stain his neat pile of clothes.

The female chuckled and left her comfortable place upon the bed. When the mage had offered himself like that, the wave of desire and disdain she had felt had almost taken her under: while she despised his motives, it felt impossible to deny the arousal his actions had conjured.

With long strides, she approached the fallen, shuddering body and poked it with her toes: she grinned when she felt the residual bite of the Glabrezu's acid saliva dripping out of the scored sides. She crouched, grabbing a handful of the once stark white hair and pulling roughly to examine his unconscious features.

Her hand idly wandered to her neck and her fingers closed around the holy symbol that hung from a blackened iron chain: she still had use for the male, and so she called upon her goddess, asking for her healing touch. Not too much, she thought as she watched the cold recede form his limbs and the blood flow anew in his nearly empty veins.

Not too much: just enough to wake him.

The energy, evil, tainted, agonic, flowed into Mjirn's core like molten pain: he had forgotten.

When he had been healed by Sharess, it had been warm, loving, like a caress inside of a cocoon where nothing could hurt him. Lloth's touch, however, was vindictive, crazed; it set his nerves afire as it burned the poison in his system and speared through his flesh as it stitched his wounds closed. It was as if she wanted to remind her children of what awaited them in the afterlife. Or perhaps she showed what she wanted to do to her enemies? Did it really matter? Did the spidery deity even bother making the distinction?

Mjirn's eyes opened wide and the spasms of death jerked to a halt, and he felt the female hovering over his prone body. He felt her fingers prodding his still unhealed wounds, smearing fresh blood over the dry rivulets that ran down his sides and back. And he felt his cheek pressed against the rough fabric of his old tunic and his arm bent at an angle against the cold stone floor.

He didn't dwell on what he was about to do. He could not afford to. He merely groaned and attempted to shift, inch by inch, trying to respond to her touch, trying to keep her attention on his willing body, just a little bit more, biting back the pain and arching just so...

His fingers touched the wool of his tunic, and then closed feebly over the leather he sought.

When she wrenched him to the side, pushing his back flat against the floor and straddling him, she unknowingly gave him the leverage he needed.

With an effort that took away whatever strength he might have recovered, he raised his hand to grab her long hair and, using the momentum of the roll, he slashed in an upwards arc with his dagger.

Many looks passed over her features. First, wanton desire as she believed him to reciprocate her actions. Then, surprise at the attack. Later, it would be contentment at the futility of it all.

Because it'd have been futile but for the adamantine. It cut through the magic defences of the priestess as if the powerful spells were nothing but silk. It pierced her skin and cut her flesh cleanly, and Mjirn's eyes were calm as her blood gushed out and fell on his own face.

In the end, her expression was one of incredulity.

In Mjirn's opinion, death always had the same expression.

Then, the dagger fell from his limp fingers with a clatter, and he only managed to push the female's corpse half off himself. He smiled even as the dim chamber receded into complete darkness for him.

Someone clapped, but he never heard it.

o O o

When Mjirn came to his senses, he was not on the Fugue Plane. He was not trapped inside an ever-hungry wall whose sole purpose was to erode his soul. He was lying on a cot in a suitably dark room, with only two candles providing a flickering light. And under that light, a white head was bent over a slim book.

He shifted, in a move that perhaps was not so wise, and the cot creaked ominously. If he had harboured any hope to remain forgotten while he ascertained the new situation, he was proved wrong.

The head snapped up and smiled, and he blinked, trying to grasp onto his recollections. He had seen that face before, hadn't he? If only his head would stop hurting, perhaps he would remember. Reaching up, he rubbed his eyes, trying to calm the pulsating pain with pressure.

And then he froze, realizing that he could, indeed, reach up freely with his arms.

His expression, unguarded in those awakening moments, must have been amusing for he heard a chuckle.

"Yes, I can imagine your surprise," the female voice said. "It took an inordinate amount of potions to bring you around."

And then she stood and approached and he blanched.

It was the young female who had asked him for help, once. The one he had threatened. The impaired, weak one.

"Where am I?" he asked, pushing himself up to a sitting position.

"In my House," she said, sitting down on the edge of the cot. "Or rather, in a guard's bedroom in the basement of my House."

Mjirn registered that. Her House? Could it be that she had been adopted...? But that didn't answer the most important question.

"Why?"

"That should be the thing worrying you, yes," she never stopped smiling. "It must mean that your addled brains are working once more. Here, drink. I would rather you were fully awake before we talk."

She tossed him another flask and he caught it mid air. Pulling the stopper free, he sniffed discreetly before tilting his head back and swallowing. It was yet another healing potion, and he felt the regenerative energy invading his limbs and his core, the webs of pain and sleep fading off as he grimaced at the bitter taste.

The female nodded and drummed her fingers on her knee.

"Why, you ask. Tell me, why did you not try to kill me when I approached you?"

He'd have loved to be able to answer, but all he could do was shrug.

"You had done nothing to me. I could gain nothing from killing you."

She studied him for the longest time in silence.

"I thought as much. You are sensible. Pragmatic. And you have done us a favour. Does that answer your why, then?"

"A favour?"

"Oh, indeed. Eliminating that bitch was not high in our list of priorities, but she was trying to compete with us nonetheless. Her project of a House is now gone and that is a nice development, if nothing else."

It was Mjirn's turn to keep silent, studying the female and her words. The air of utter innocence and defencelessness had fled her, and while she did not seem to be of the most sadistic persuasion, he still was tense, on his guard. Her hair was perhaps a tad too short for a noble, he thought, and he saw no spider medallion hanging from her neck.

He did notice a small embellishment pinned to her tunic, and his eyes widened as he recognised it as a House insignia.

"It is an honour that House Teken'tlar would consider my actions favourable," he said, without even stopping to think about the courtesy words.

"_I _consider your actions favourable," she corrected. "Or, rather, I consider _you _useful."

His head snapped up to meet her gaze.

"You act behind your adoptive House's back?"

"Whoever said adoptive," she smirked. "I have fun teasing strangers, that is all," she added when realization dawned on his face.

She had been a Teken'tlar all along. He had threatened and shoved a female of the first House of Mithuth.

He was as good as dead.

"I would not have dragged you here to kill you after wasting precious supplies on your health," she said, reading his expression only too well.

"What do you want," he dared to question in a muted tone.

She stood and paced the small room.

"I find you too smart to deliberately attempt to move against us. And you are talented: I must grant your former Mistress at least that much," she stopped right in front of him, and he could not help a sense of inadequacy. "You have been granted a second chance. Not by the most beloved Spider Queen, needless to say. But people like us never look twice at a gift, no matter where it comes from, hmm? We use it, and use it well."

And with that, she turned to the door.

"Wait," Mjirn found himself saying when her hand pushed it open. "Who are you?"

"Baejra, Eldest daughter of House Teken'tlar," she tapped her lower lip, playfully. "In truth, that should be Second Sister, but our organization is a bit too complex for outsiders. Perhaps I shall get around to explaining it to you one day, Mjirn of no House worth mentioning."

And then, she was gone.

Mjirn stayed immobile a few more heartbeats, as if expecting the encounter to be a trick of his own mind, and then he stood on surprisingly firm legs and found his clothes, blood stained but neatly folded on a chair. He grimaced in disgust at the dry spots but slipped tunic and pants on in spite of it: he had nothing else to his name, since he could not return to fetch his spare ones.

Below the garments he found his adamantine dagger, clean and stored in its sheath, and he tied it in place at the small of his back with a smile. He wondered why the female... Baejra had left him with his precious treasure, but he dismissed the thought almost as fast as it occurred to him: there were many things about the encounter he did not understand, many variables that could still prove wild. He had to focus on what was important:

He had been granted a second chance.

He had to make the best of it.

o O o

They were sitting in front of the Tapper, overlooking the streets. Chauntea's Hold's silhouette was a dark shape over the resplendent sea, and the setting sun painted the sky and the waves in fiery tones.

All in all, a beautiful day in a beautiful city. Nothing to do with the previous cycle.

There was no darkness and no demons and the smell in the air was sulphur-free, crisp with salt.

Valerie felt almost stupid, talking about her childish worries, but at least he seemed to be taking them seriously.

"I warned you not to trust him," Izzhris explained in his quiet, calm monotone. "He was still prey of the Underdark and its ways. In those cases, betrayal and lies are to be expected."

"But I thought..." she sighed. "I mean, drow can _come up_ to the light. That must mean that, at first, they are underground?"

Merrick, to her other side, snorted and earned a half-hearted glare from the Eilistreean drow.

"We cannot force anyone to be redeemed. All we can do is hold out our hand: they must reach out and take it."

"What he means to say is that drow who expect to be redeemed had better sit down to wait," Merrick cut in with a smirk, seeing the confused look on Valerie's face. "Because they are supposed to redeem themselves."

"It is the grace of Eilistree the one redeeming my brothers."

"Which grows on mushrooms for the wicked drow to pick? You can't ask them to decide on their own that the life they have always known is not for them, Izzhris."

"It is an empty life, and noticing such a thing is the first step. They have to take it themselves."

Merrick shrugged.

"If you say so. I won't follow your Dark Maiden, but still, if you're condemning Mjirn because he's stuck in the Underdark, it doesn't look like you're doing much for holding out your hand."

Izzhris's eyes narrowed.

"And thus speaks the man known to cavort with demons himself. Perhaps you take interest in this conversation because you find yourself much too close to his position than you would care to admit?"

"Devils, not demons," Merrick corrected, leaning back comfortably and letting the dying rays of the sun bathe his upturned face. "And I don't cavort: I am a warlock and I have a Pact."

"Of course. Because having a pact is so much better," the drow sneered.

"Can we please get back on topic?" Valerie said, bringing the pair's attention back to herself.

Izzhris nodded, but Merrick stood and stared down at the pair.

"I've got to get going. Rancid air and all that. But here's some food for thought: If Underdark drow are so treacherous, then what the hell are you doing believing an Underdark drow?"

Valerie frowned.

"Amir was very kind to me, and he just showed me the way to where Mjirn was. I believed my own eyes."

Merrick turned and offered a wave over his shoulder as he walked away, leaving the other two to their own devices.

"Sure. Mjirn also used to be very kind, remember?"

She didn't have time to reply before he was out of earshot. She couldn't find the words. Izzhris put his hand to her shoulder and gave a light squeeze.

"Do not worry. You made a mistake judging Mjirn, and while he is right in pointing out that all spider-kissing drow must be mistrusted, you did nothing wrong in regards to this Amir."

"Do you really think so?"

"Of course. It might have been a little rash, following an unknown dark elf, but he did nothing untoward and, as you pointed out, you had your own eyes."

"I guess you're right. We can all make mistakes, no?" with a sigh, she stood. "I think I'm going to go to bed early today. I didn't grab much sleep last night so..."

The drow and the priestess shared a small smile and a chuckle, and Izzhris stood up as well.

"Rest well."

"You, too."

Valerie turned back into the Tapper. It still was empty and quiet: the crowd that would invade the establishment during the late hours of the night was away, doing whatever they did to earn the silvers they'd later squander in cheap ale and gambling gambits. Any other day, she'd have chosen a table and would have stayed up long enough to watch the place fill and to observe the patrons, but not that day.

She just wanted to rest, to clear her head, so she dragged herself up the stairs to her room.

Closing the door, she let her back fall against the rough wood and heaved a deep breath, rubbing her face.

And then she screamed.

Recognising the shadow that stood stock still in the middle of the bedroom did not serve to calm her, either.

"Mjirn," she said, her voice colder than she'd wanted it to be. "What are you doing here?"

As she spoke, she cast a small cantrip to lighten up the interior and then frowned.

"Never mind the what. Is that blood?", she asked, pointing to his clothing.

"Yes, it is," he replied, his eyes fixed on the floor out of nervous habit.

"I don't even want to know whose it is..."

"It is -"

"I _said_, I don't want to know."

His gaze lifted at her cutting tone, surprised. He had never seen her like that before; had never heard her voice so full of spite before.

She sighed once more.

"I saw you yesterday," she said, and he stumbled back a step as if physically hit.

For Valerie, the stricken look upon his face was perfect guilt.

And perhaps she was not wrong: he knew how hard the sight must have been for her, he knew it had been his own foolishness putting her in that situation. He had called his former Mistress' attention to Valerie, after all.

"I am sorry that you had to see such a thing. It was never my intention -"

"Oh, I know that. You'd have kept it hidden forever, no?"

Mjirn frowned as she started to pace.

"I would have kept the sight hidden from your eyes, yes. I thought it would be best for you."

"Why, thank you! How about letting _me_ decide what's best for me?" she stopped in front of him, her fists on her hips, and, for Mjirn, she looked then more than ever like a priestess. "I have just one question, and I hope you'll be honest when answering this one time."

She was upset, and he could see her tension, her doubt. He reached out, to calm her, as he had done before.

I have always been sincere, he was going to say.

But he said nothing when he saw the way she stepped back, hastily, with her beautiful smile twisted into a look of disgust for his touch.

"Were you there willingly?" she barked her query into his shocked silence. "_Did you want it_?"

His hand hovered for a heartbeat, and then fell limp to his side. He smiled, a calm yet sad smile, and, looking into her wide eyes, he did the only thing he could.

"Yes," he said, replying with a truth hidden behind a truth that did not answer her at all.

She never noticed.

"Out," Valerie whispered with a shudder, hugging herself as if to find protection from his presence.

And he obeyed. As he always did.

o O o

Stalking with a sure stride from shadow to shadow, Amir made his way from the teleport stone to the set of chambers where his Mistress would wait for him. He was in high spirits, even though events had deviated from the original plan: the human female had come, as his Mistress had guaranteed she would, but the Sharessan follower had, somehow, become unimportant.

Surprising, yes, but in a good way: Amir smiled when he thought of the other male's fate, and of the rather interesting night he had spent. Better this way, he thought. Not that watching the human's tricks at work with a demon would not have been entertaining, but... he was sure that he had appreciated them more than the Glabrezu would have.

And his Mistress? She would not be sated; no, never sated. But mellowed. And that was something he could enjoy.

He quickened his steps and reached the hideout unmolested, lost in his own thoughts. The lights had burned out, but he did not find it odd - on the contrary, it'd better suit the games. The air smelled of blood and sweat and sulphur and death, but that was not estrange either: he had never expected Mjirn to survive the encounter, anyway.

There were no warm bodies for his infrared vision to discern, though, and he did frown at that.

With a thought, he concentrated on his innate abilities and called forth a gust of feery fire, bright enough to illuminate the open room and the bed and...

He cursed, his concentration broke and the chamber was plunged into darkness once more.

With nimble fingers, he found and lighted a candle, refusing to believe what he had seen. A trick from the fire, nothing else, he kept repeating to himself.

But when the flame flickered to life there was no denying it: the cold, dead body was not Mjirn's. It was his Mistress, her throat cut open and her face frozen in a mask of incredulity. He knelt by her side, but she was long gone. The blood was already dry, her corpse was starting to bloat.

She was long gone.

She had died while he had been entertaining himself with the human wench, he realized, and the irony of it made him curse and laugh and scream in frustration and, yes, in anguish.

Of course, he hadn't loved her. She had been a vicious, dangerous tool. He was not mourning the loss of her.

No, he mourned the loss of his hard earned station. His House, his role of Patron, his growing power and the recognition that little by little attached itself to his face and his name. Everything was gone without her to front as Matron Mother.

The Patron and Weapon Master of House Hunduis had become nothing but Amir of no House worth mentioning.

He knew who had killed her, though, and he allowed himself a hollow laugh. In the end, that piece of scum had turned out to be a real drow, hadn't he?

However, Mjirn was a fool if he thought he could get away with it. After all, Amir had never stopped being a true dark elf.

The former Weapon Master was not thinking about killing the mage, though. No. Because they were drow, the game would be a much more subtle, equally devastating one.

Thanks to Mjirn, his plans and his work had become useless. Well, he thought with a smirk, standing up and dusting his pants off.

We'll see who ends up the victor.


	10. Act X

A/N: _Here it is: the final installment to Tossed Coin. It was particularly difficult to set up the scenes and images in here, so I'd appreciate the feedback on the results. I've never been in so much pressure writing an ending! (laughs) I hope I managed to pull it off, and to offer a not-so-terrible ending. We will see. Meet you again after the chapter, in another note. Please, read, review and enjoy._

o O o

**Act X**

o O o

Valerie woke up with a start, soaked in sweat and breathing hard.

It had become a constant in the last few tendays.

She kept having the same dream – or rather, remembering the same memory, she should say. There were slight variations and sometimes she did not quite recall the setting, but the essence did never change. And afterwards, when she lay on her comfortable room, the bed sheets tossed around and tangled about her legs, the vision would linger like the worst possible nightmare to haunt her nights until exhaustion took hold on her once more.

Before it started, everything had been fine. She had felt so sure of herself, so confident. So righteous, she thought with a laugh that sounded too close to a sob. She had pushed on, determined to forget, and then he had come back.

They had met casually on the outskirts of Sharessia, where the scant passers-by would not interrupt them, and she had been naive enough to greet him with a smile.

He hadn't smiled back, though. He had leaned back against a tree, observing her from a distance. And then he had told her that she must know the truth, that surely that was what she was looking for.

Of course, she had said yes. She had played right into his hands.

His voice was the one thing she always remembered after her dreams.

He had talked with a perfect monotone, as if he was discussing the weather or some other equally uninteresting field. He had explained drow Houses and society in no uncertain terms. He had told her that the best a houseless male could do was to sell himself to the best deal offered: whatever little position, whatever security such a male could find came strictly from the capricious demands of the female who had taken an interest. Access to laboratories? Education? Training? Everything came with a heavy price.

"_He never told you, but he paid dearly."_

The female who found Mjirn had liked him. Very much so. The mage was so useful, so pliant, how could she not enjoy him? That was why the Mistress had wanted to hurt her. Because she had feared her pet would be spirited away, out of her clutches and into the surface by a woman who disregarded race, status, worth.

_"Humans are so below drow, and yet she grew jealous of you: no Mistress enjoys sharing her possessions."_

The demon Valerie saw? It had never been meant for Mjirn. He had not called it forth. He lacked the training and the inclination to learn how to do such a thing. Paying a little bit of attention, anyone with the slightest knowledge would have discovered that the bindings, the invocation, had been prepared by a priestess.

_"Did you truly not feel the divine energies at work?"_

The Glabrezu had been called forth by the Mistress, and it had been just for her: for Valerie. The drow female had gone to great lengths to secure success, she had even planted a suggestion into the woman's mind to make sure that she came to Mithuth following an urge hard to place. It would have been the perfect revenge: turn her worship into a weapon, break everything that was holy for a Sharessan, and break her. The one and only reason the female had not succeeded? Mjirn. The mage had stood between Valerie and her fate.

_"He took your place." _

The Mistress would not have killed Mjirn, not when he was so useful and so pliant. But she had allowed him to suffer in her stead because it had seemed to be amusing. Entertaining. Something new, something the Llothite could not understand and thus something that fascinated her. She had allowed her precious mage to become the victim and had watched with complete detachment, feeling nothing but her own pleasure at the sight.

_"We drow have no word for love and no use for its concept. However, even a dark elf is able to feel some form of twisted affection." _

And then, there had been the aftermath. As Valerie had been told, drow males learned never to lie to priestesses. They twisted the truth instead. When she had gotten Mjirn's confession in her room at the inn, even if she had bothered to cast a spell, the statement 'I wanted to be there' would have resounded with the power of absolute truth. Mjirn had wanted to be with the demon, to be part of the soiree, because it had been the way to keep her safe. Protected. Clean. The mage had choked on the darkness and evil of the demon so that Valerie could turn her back and be free of the taint, of the perversion.

_"He begged to be raped for you."_

Mjirn had known, from the very beginning, that she would not be strong enough to endure the abuse.

_"I think he loved you."_

That night, several tendays ago, Valerie had cried. She still did, every other night, whenever she revisited her dream.

_"Do you want to know the best part?" _

That night, several tendays ago, he had merely smiled wider. Any trace of apathy had been long gone from his tone as he educated her further in her own foolishness.

_"How you turned away in disgust."_

She had been a child: she had not understood why he had been so cruel, why he enjoyed her distress, why he told her.

He had laughed.

"Your Mjirn killed our Mistress, you know," he had said, conversationally. "It was the best way to ensure your safety, I figure. He also managed to destroy several years' worth of careful planning on my part. I had reached a position, do you not understand? I was the Patron of her House, the Weapon Master. I was respected. Nearly all other males and even several females had to bow to me. And he took it all away."

She had asked how she could trust his word.

"He went to great lengths to spare you the suffering. He lied to you so you would feel no remorse. As he nullified my efforts, so I destroy his."

A shrug. Her spell, ringing clear with the sound of honesty. Amir, turning his back on her, never to return to her life. Amir, leaving her alone under the suddenly cold sun, with the echo of her own words:

_"Out."_

Valerie ran her hands through her short hair and stood up to grab a pitcher of water. She knew sleep would elude her, even though it was still early: the noise from the lower floor of the inn filtered up to her room through the floor planks and the open window, but she was in no condition to join the festivities. It had been a good while since she had enjoyed the company of strangers.

After death, that drow bitch had won, she thought with a bitter grin. How long had it been since she had properly honoured Sharess? At first, she had been too busy to indulge in frivolous intercourse, trying to find Mjirn. She wasn't quite sure what she wanted to tell the drow, but she had spent days stalking his usual hunting grounds. She had enquired after him. She had even rounded her friends up for a scouting trip to Mithuth.

It had been as if he had vanished. In the end, she had given up the prospect of ever seeing that soft, red-orange look again, but by that point her nightmares were so deeply entrenched in her daily life that she was left in no mood to celebrate the joys of intimacy.

She drank greedily, hoping to wash her mouth of the taste of her own unshed tears, and then the wooden cup slipped from her fingers when someone knocked on her door.

"Wrong room!" she called out, swallowing a curse.

"Right room!" Merrick's voice called right back, sounding slightly out of breath. "I got your elf!"

As if the words had been some kind of spell, Valerie jumped the distance to the door and wrenched it open.

"Where?" she asked, a hint of desperation in her voice.

She didn't ask whether it was a joke. Merrick had been with her from the beginning and she knew that, even though he might not be the best person all around, he would not play with her hopes.

"Merchant Hall. You know how me and some other fellows are trying to put together some sort of magic guild? There was a meeting tonight, and a drow delegation came. It's about an agreement."

Valerie knew Merrick and a few other casters of various ilk were vying for more weight in the Merchant Council, and that they wanted their interests represented. She had heard him bitching about securing support to the idea, but she could care less about the particular agreement.

"This delegation, they had Mjirn with them?"

"Well... yes, you could say that. Sort of."

She didn't wait any longer. The woman bolted out of her room and towards the stairs.

"Hey!," Merrick shouted after her and even tried to catch up with her strides. "Don't run off like that! I warn you, it's going to be a damn shocking sight!"

Valerie never replied. She had already had her fill on sights, and she didn't care. She wanted to reach the Merchant Hall before the drow returned to Mithuth and took Mjirn away from her again. She would not let herself be shocked by anything, not when her own inability to assimilate what she saw had caused the whole mess.

"At least you should put some clothes on," Merrick muttered to her retreating back before heading down to the main room for a tankard of ale.

And, out into the night, leaving behind her a trail of astonished stares and drooling mouths, a barefooted Valerie ran on, her nightshirt flapping about her, spurred on by her determination not to fail Mjirn again: she must be on time, she must not let the drow use him as an object again...

o O o

Inside the Merchant Hall, there were six drow suffering from various degrees of boredom, tiredness and raw tension. The project they had come to address was ambitious, and it was in their best interest to secure the open welcome of their proposal: to build a facility for mages and casters that would be safe and would provide excellent resources.

In other words, to build an Arcanist Guild and to call the shots on it.

The idea was simple: negotiating with Haven's authorities the adequate authorizations needed to clean, rebuild and improve Chauntea's Hold should be easy, since the Underground and its present condition were currently considered a hazard to the community.

However, there were always complications. What did the drow stand to win with this seemingly philanthropic offer? Much, really: a presence on the surface, easier exposure to trade, an assimilation that would grant them better business deals. It all could be translated into influence, and influence was power: the one currency the drow dealt with.

Of course, the dark elves could not say that much, and therein lay the trap. Painstakingly slowly, they spent hours in a reserved chamber of the Hall, first winning over the casters themselves and then arguing with their representative over every minute point of the agreement: who owned what, what were the rights and the obligations, who would be the Head of the Arcanists, the Master of Coin, the Heads of Schools, how many seats of power there would be, which treatises would be signed... And the list went on and on.

The drow were starting to feel the passage of time when the representative decided to call it a night - he was a human who should be sleeping in the small hours of the night, he said, garnering the stares full of content of the drow guards.

Right, one young soldier thought. Because we have nothing better to do three hours before sunrise except to stand here and look at you.

He snorted and his captain, a stern female who had at least four inches on him, shot him a dirty look that sobered him up instantly.

And then, just as the wizened representative from Haven stood up, the door to the chamber burst open and a woman in her nightclothes stood there, panting out of breath.

Valerie was conscious of every pair of eyes fixated on her, but she didn't pay them any heed: she scanned the dark skinned attendants, looking for him and then... then she froze.

When Merrick had warned her, she hadn't thought of this. She hadn't even recognized Mjirn until he turned to look at her, mildly bewildered at the intrusion.

He was easily the shortest figure in the room, even counting the other four males, but still he towered over the other presences without trying. It reminded her of that one time, in her room: the way he carried himself had changed even more since then. His back was straight, his stance sure, and he no longer wore the soft, comfortable and indistinct clothing she had grown used to: the rich black robes were heavily embroidered with iridescent thread, ornate mithril bracers decorated his forearms and his boots were polished to a high sheen.

His gaze fell levelly on her, and she found the same warm kindness kindling the depths of his eyes when he looked in hers. She wasn't reassured: she felt inadequate.

"The public meeting was over a good while ago, miss," the representative said into the uncomfortable silence, clearing his throat.

"She came at my personal request," Mjirn interrupted before Valerie had time to embarrass herself any further. "I trust my use of this Chamber is not untoward."

The words were polite as ever, but there was an edge of command behind his tone that the priestess hadn't heard before, and she shivered as the other man nodded and left, followed by his own entourage.

Stepping aside, Valerie let them pass and then it was just her and the drow. The silence stretched for a few heartbeats, until she thought she was going to crack, and then Mjirn turned to the female drow.

"Wait outside," he ordered. "Secure the room. We are not to be disturbed."

Valerie's jaw nearly dropped as she witnessed shy, tame Mjirn issue the set of instructions, and she was even more surprised when the female nodded with a curt bow and turned to bark in an incomprehensible language to the other four dark elves.

The group didn't waste a moment before leaving the Hall, closing the door behind them and leaving the pair alone. And, when she was presented with the chance, she found that words failed her.

"You are hurt," he said at length.

It was true. Her feet were dirty from the unceremonious run and she had gained a cut somewhere along the way. But it was unimportant. What mattered was him, not herself: How had he coped? Was he alright? What had they done to him?

"What's that fancy thread?" she croaked instead, nodding to his embroidery.

Mjirn lifted an eyebrow, surprised, and she wanted nothing more than to slap herself. Where had that come from? It was obviously none of her business and even if she was curious, it was not important...

"Drider silk," he said, a small smile in his tone.

"It looks expensive." Sweet Sharess, her tongue was just running off without her. She could not prevent herself from blurting out ridiculous things. Of course, she had jumped out of bed and crossed half the town just to be inane about his wardrobe.

"It is expensive."

"So why in the nine hells are you wearing it?"

She winced as soon as the words were out. As if she hadn't been unfair enough already... She started to stammer an apology, but Mjirn's low chuckle interrupted her. The drow shook his head and pushed away from the table, taking his cloak with him.

"No, wait. We... I need to talk to you. Please."

"I am not going anywhere," he replied, reaching up to wrap his cloak around her shoulders instead. "Forgive my presumption, but I believe the night will not agree with your choice of clothes."

"Or lack thereof," Valerie snorted, holding tight the heavy piwafwi.

"Indeed," he guided her to one of the chairs, gently, as if she was a crystal figure about to break.

She had to admit that it must seem like her sanity was on the verge of breaking. And when a strangled cry forced its way out of nowhere and she threw her arms about his neck, she guessed that she had, in fact, gone crazy.

For a long, precarious moment, the two of them were about to topple over and she felt him tense in reflex, as if ready to fight. But then, his arms came to her waist and they managed to remain standing, the chair rattling and Mjirn pinned against the table as he offered whatever comfort he could.

It made Valerie laugh and cry at the same time, how even after everything he accepted her as if he had never expected better, as if she had not failed him. Sharess, she must seem a lunatic!

"Sorry about that," she said sheepishly when she calmed down.

"It is not a problem. Are you well?"

"You think I'm loony, huh?"

"No. I think your pallor does not look healthy, your eyes are not suited to bags, and it is too early for you to have been asleep. And I distinctly remember you to weigh more."

She laughed, just a little.

"Yeah, well, I've been..." she bit back her words, sighed, ran her hands through her hair. "I don't want to talk about me. We should be talking about... I should be asking you."

"I am fine. You do not need to worry."

"You can't be fine! After..." she looked away, took two steps away from him, glanced up once more. "Amir told me everything."

"I am fine. And I know," he replied, leaning back against the table.

"You... do?"

"He was kind enough to enlighten me."

"Why would he do that?"

Mjirn stared at her levelly, as if judging whether she did require an answer, and then shrugged.

"There was no point in delivering a blow if I was not aware of the existing wound."

"Oh. Mjirn, you must be careful with that one. He's evil. He really is..."

"He shall not pose a threat in the future. But I am sorry that you had to suffer for my rivalry with him."

"I won't lie, he has given me nightmares," she took a deep breath. "But I'm glad I learned what I did. So that I can... make amends."

There was a moment of silence and then Valerie asked:

"When you say he will not be a threat..."

"He is dead, yes."

"You killed him? He was an excellent fighter, how did you manage to cast fast enough?"

"He was a great Weapon Master and took down three guards before I disintegrated him."

"Wait. Guards? You set a bunch of guards on him?"

Mjirn arched a brow, smiled.

"You were not expecting me to confront him alone in the open, I hope?"

"No, but I didn't know there was a city guard in Mithuth. I didn't know the place had laws to protect!"

"It does not. It was a House Guard."

Mjirn fingered a small silver brooch pinned to his robes, and Valerie walked closer again to examine the intricate embroidery, a dead look coming to her eyes.

"I wanted you to leave that hole. It was never your place to begin with. You deserve the kindness and... if there's a drow who should be welcome to come up into the light, that's you. I thought, since your Mistress was dead, you could escape. That I could help you to find your real home. And now... you are their prisoner once more?"

It was Mjirn's turn to look away. For the first time since the conversation had started, he looked unsure - the male she had known first. With tentative fingers, he reached up to cup the side of her face, brushing her hair out of her eyes when she didn't flinch away.

"I harbour no love for the Dancing Lady nor for her creed, but I would have accepted her surface and its burning sun if you had asked me."

"I am asking you now."

"I cannot."

"It is not fair!" she exploded, an angry tear making its way down her cheek. "You should be free!"

He swallowed.

"I am free. Valerie, my place... it is not under the sun. My home is in Mithuth. I have... ideas. Projects. There are things I have always dreamed to do, and as part of House Teken'tlar I can pursue these avenues."

"Another female has claimed you in that hell."

"No. I have not been claimed. I have been... accepted. The House is different from any other: Mithuth is an outpost, after all, and the power structure is still young. Most factions are striving groups tied under the power of a single figure, and that is why Teken'tlar could rise to prominence. With their influence behind my moves, I can make a change. I cannot turn my back on that."

"What is Teken'tlar then? The biggest bully or something like that?"

"A House that understands the value of merits and cooperation. Anything else would be too complex to explain now, and ultimately pointless."

"You could find influence here, too," she pleaded. She had not expected this situation: in her mind, the difficult thing was to get his forgiveness, not to get him to abandon a society he despised. "You were in the guild meeting: I am sure we could talk to Merrick and find someone to take you as apprentice and..."

She fell silent when his fingers touched her lips and he smiled.

"Apprentice? I am Mithuth's First House Wizard and Head of the future Arcanist Guild."

"Your dream."

"Yes."

She felt her hopes crumbling, and realized that she cared for him much more than she had thought she did.

"I can't take that from you, I guess," she said. Then, she clung to him, their differences in height and weight and race overlooked as the tears she had held at bay overwhelmed her. "I wish it weren't like this."

He held her, letting her soak his hair, and dared to smile into her shoulder. He remembered something she had said to him, once, when they had just met.

"It doesn't need to be like this, Valerie," he said, softly.

"You've chosen the Underdark."

"Over the Surface," he sighed, held out his hand, hesitatingly. "I already belonged to the Underdark when we met."

She stepped away from his embrace, stared at his hand, then up into those red-orange eyes. They were warm and open for her – she knew on instinct that no one else was afforded the sight into his soul.

He knew what love was, better than she did.

Obsidian black and peach white, she threaded her fingers through his. The contrast was beautiful. It felt right, and she smiled.

Later, seven figures would climb into the boat towards Mithuth under the last rays of the moon.

Into the darkness, away from the light.

o O o

The End

o O o

* * *

><p>AN: _What a trip... this story has been amazing to write, and I can't thank you all enough for being with me every step of the way. I just hope you enjoyed this as much as I did. Also, this story might be over but another tale is coming up: _To Kill the Moonlight_, the continuation to To Catch the Moonlight, will be up tomorrow under _Games - Dungeons and Dragons_. It's another story of dark elves, of strife, of choices. I hope to meet you again in there. _

_Meanwhile, let me say it again: thank you for your support to _A Tossed Coin_._


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